Sanguivoriphobia
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: As Sherlock Holmes and John Watson deal with a psychotic murderer who leaves behind decapitated corpses almost entirely drained of blood, John realizes that his feelings for Sherlock went beyond the realm of friendship. Johnlock. Reviews may contain spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**This fic will not mention the fall, so it is up to you whether or not it happened. **

**Thank you for reading! **

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

The soft tapping of John's laptop keys echoed throughout the otherwise silent flat. He was writing up a case they had solved two days ago; Sherlock was lying on the couch, hands pressed to the front of his face so that, to anyone who didn't know him, he looked like he was praying. John knew better; he knew his friend was merely in his mind palace.

He had been surprised when Sherlock hadn't kicked him out of the room like normal when visiting the infamous mind palace. The great detective had merely pranced into the room, looked at John, looked at the couch, thrown himself upon it, then gotten the familiar look on his face that signaled his departure from reality. That far-off glaze in the cold colorful eyes was normally the only thing John ever glimpsed of the mind palace. Smothering a chuckle, he looked away from Sherlock, glancing every once in a while at his friend when he flicked at imaginary things in front of him.

The afternoon faded into night in this peaceful manner. John had finished the post and closed his laptop when Sherlock inhaled sharply.

John looked at the detective as he blinked a few times, readjusting himself to reality.

"Sorry, did I distract you?"

"No. Dinner?" The smooth baritone voice was unusually rough; it sounded as though Sherlock had been asleep though John knew that wasn't the case.

"Only if you eat too."

Sherlock sighed before flinging himself off of the couch and grabbing his coat and scarf. John got up and reached for his jacket, though in a much less dramatic way than the detective, and was surprised when Sherlock helped him into it.

The two men descended the staircase and John alerted Mrs. Hudson of their departure while Sherlock got them a cab.

"You two have fun now!" She enthusiastically replied, winking at John. Too tired to stand up for his heterosexuality, he merely smiled at her before he turned around and entered the cab.

The drive was silent; the two men stared out of their windows at the passing buildings. The cabbie winked at John as he paid, and he ignored the man and the jab at his sexuality once more.

Angelo's was near empty when they walked in and sat at the same table they did two years ago before Sherlock had dragged John across London and cured his psychosomatic limp. John smiled fondly at the memory before returning his attention to the menu.

Angelo bustled over to the pair.

"It's on the house as usual." He said as he reached for something on an empty table. Angelo winked at Sherlock and placed a candle between them. He patted John's shoulder and walked away to another table.

"What will you have?"

"Probably the pasta."

Sherlock slowly nodded, scanning over the menu though John was sure he knew the contents by heart. John put his back on the table, sipping his water as he glanced out of the window for leisure rather than surveillance. Sherlock placed his menu back on the table and signaled for Angelo to return to their table. He rushed to their table and asked them what they were ordering.

"I'll have the linguine, please."

"I'll have the linguine also."

"You're eating?"

"You asked me to, remember?"

"Yes, but I didn't think you would listen."

"I always listen to you." John wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he thought Sherlock sounded a bit offended.

Too shocked to respond, John looked out the window once more. Sherlock continued staring intensely at John until the doctor hesitantly met his eyes. He knew the detective was trying to deduce the meaning of his statement; however, Sherlock's inexperience with emotions resulted in confusion rather than answers.

Angelo backed away from their table, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The men didn't notice his departure.

Meanwhile, John smirked. He couldn't help it; seeing Sherlock look absolutely baffled was a nice change. John enjoyed their reversal of positions though Sherlock obviously didn't. He began glaring at the doctor. It was clear the detective desperately wanted to know what was going on, but he wouldn't stoop to ask for help. This made John's smirk grow wider.

"Always?" John prompted.

"Yes! I'm eating aren't I?"

"Then why do you never buy milk when I ask you to?"

"Boring." Sherlock replied.

"Exactly." John leaned back into his seat and laughed.

Sherlock continued to look confused, though at the sound of John's laughter he looked frustrated and pleased at the same time.

Angelo placed their food in front of them, John still laughing. Sherlock grabbed his fork and began angrily eating the pasta. The loud clink of the fork against the plate fueled John's laughter. Something snapped in Sherlock, and he started chuckling.

Five minutes later, they had calmed down, though only because everyone in the restaurant was staring at them. A comfortable silence encompassed them as they ate their food.

They finished their meals without saying another word. Once the men were done, they got up and began to put their coats on. Sherlock helped John into his once more, causing Angelo to victoriously smirk at them.

Instead of getting a cab, the men walked back to the flat. They walked in sync, Sherlock's shoulder occasionally brushing John's.

"I do listen to you."

"I know you do; you just don't listen to everything I say. That was all I was saying."

"You didn't refute anyone today."

"What?"

"There were three instances today where people implied that we were a couple and you didn't bat an eyelash."

"I gave up trying to correct everyone. People will talk whether I say anything or not; I figured I might as well not waste my breath."

"They'll do little else."

John chuckled and Sherlock grinned. He followed the detective up the stairs and into the flat. They took their coats off and hung them beside the door.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

John turned to leave as Sherlock began to walk to his room. Their arms brushed as they went to their bedrooms. Just as John was about to begin walking up the stairs, he heard a low voice murmur:

"Goodnight John."

Smiling, the doctor continued up to his room and began getting ready to go to sleep.

As he slipped under the covers, John heard soft violin music. It was a soothing melody, one John was unaccustomed to hearing Sherlock play. He smiled and closed his eyes and allowed the lullaby to lull him to sleep.

* * *

The sound of gunshots tore John awake. He sprinted down from his room, bursting into their flat only to find Sherlock on the couch with his gun pointed at the wall. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he began shooting at the smiley face once more.

"SHERLOCK!" John bellowed. Sherlock lazily looked up at the enraged doctor.

"Bored."

"That doesn't mean you can shoot the wall again!"

"I need a case." Sherlock whined as he rose from the couch.

"It's only been three days since your last one!"

"I am bored!"

"Relax, there will be a new case soon."

"_Relax! _Dull."

John sighed and looked at the paper, scanning for something interesting. When he saw nothing worth reading, he sat down in his chair. He would never admit it aloud, but John was equally bored.

Sherlock's phone rang, an answer to John's silent plea, and the detective began speaking in a bored tone that didn't betray his excited appearance.

"Sherlock Holmes."

The detective's face lit up, obviously a case, as John heard a muffled voice reply.

"We'll be there shortly."

John watched as Sherlock hung up the phone, grinning wildly as he pulled his coat and scarf on. He stood at the doorway, staring at John.

"Coming?"

The doctor stood from his seat and put his coat on, Sherlock helping him once again. The detective sped down the stairs, the doctor quick on his heels as Sherlock hailed a cab. His face was apathetic once more, though John could still see the small twinkle of excitement in Sherlock's eyes as he looked straight ahead. John looked away from his flatmate, meeting the disgusted gaze of the cabbie before looking out the window.

* * *

Anderson sneered at Sherlock and John as they walked in, though Sally was nowhere to be found. Momentarily puzzled, John looked for her before turning his attention back to the detective as Lestrade rushed up to them.

"What is it Lestrade?" The detective demanded, his cold gaze washing over the DI.

"You're going to want to see it for yourselves first."

They followed Greg inside the building and into a room that reeked of blood though there was none present. They looked down at the mangled corpse, and John wanted to vomit.

Being an army doctor, he had a strong stomach; however, there were some things that could still bring bile to his throat. The dead body in front of the army doctor was naked and mangled; it reminded John of an old chew toy though no blood leaked from the various wounds.

Sherlock knelt beside the decapitated corpse. The head was in a corner, tiny trickles of blood oozing from the neck. John thought it was odd that the only visible blood was in the head but not the body.

John turned his attention to the naked corpse. There was no blood to be seen from where the head was removed from the body.

"Have any ideas?"

"A few."

"What are they?" Greg inquired, sounding both hopeful and disgusted.

"The body appears to have been drained of blood, although lab results will probably show some coagulated remains. It doesn't appear to be something performed by a cult; they would've left evidence of a ritual. Appears to have been a single murderer; if there were multiple people inflicting damage on the body, the wounds would look differently depending on hand size, strength, positioning, etc. Judging from the wounds, the murderer appears to be a man in his late thirties. Some parts of the body appear to have been squeezed, so whoever was murdering this woman wanted her blood. But why would the murderer decapitate someone just to get some blood?"

"Revenge?" John suggested, speaking up for the first time since they arrived.

"If it were for revenge, the murderer wouldn't have chopped the head off first. The murderer would've wanted to make them suffer."

John stood in silence, equally puzzled. Lestrade looked as though he was going to vomit, while Sherlock maintained his apathetic appearance though his tone revealed his curiosity.

The detective suddenly turned around and left the room, Lestrade quickly following. John stood for a minute longer, pondering the strange murder.

"Come along John!" Sherlock demanded. John sighed and left the horrific room.

The men exited the crime scene, Sherlock smirking when they walked past a vomiting Anderson.


	2. Chapter 2

John followed Sherlock away from Anderson, chuckling. Sherlock was silent, although when he turned a corner, the doctor saw a slight smirk on his face.

"Where are we going?"

His inquiry wasn't dignified with a verbal response, though Sherlock slowed down so that they walked side-by-side. John remained silent.

They arrived back at the flat, the detective bounded up the stairs and immediately grabbed his violin. As the doctor walked up the steps with considerably less speed than his friend, a frustrated melody hit his ears. He didn't question his friend; rather, John merely walked into the kitchen and began to make them tea. He set Sherlock's cup on the cleanest surface close to the swaying man and sat in his own chair. He began drinking his tea as he stared into the fire, pondering the strange murder.

Their positions were reversed once more, though the realization hit John with less jovial triumph than it did at the restaurant. Normally, John was the one finding some way to vent from an appalling sight and Sherlock would sit still and contemplate the murder. Yet it was Sherlock venting in the only way he knew how, playing his violin, and John was analyzing, though with much less skill than the detective, the corpse.

His thoughts were interrupted when the music came to a screeching halt. Sherlock stood stark still for the first time since he left the crime scene.

"Got anything?"

"Nothing new."

Silence reigned once more as the violin was carefully placed back into its case. The detective took the tea sitting out for him and plopped into his chair, crouching like a vulture. He stared at the drink as though it held the keys to the universe (which for all John knew, it did).

Sherlock shifted in his chair, his eyelids drooping and his mouth twitching as though it held back a yawn.

"Maybe sleep will help."

"Sleep slows me down."

The yawn finally slipped out of the stubborn man, and he glared at the air in front of him as though it was the source of the offensive noise. Sometimes Sherlock reminded John of a five year old. The doctor stood, carefully masking a smirk as he grabbed the detective's arm and gently pulled him out of the chair.

"C'mon, you need your rest."

"I don't need sleep." The detective replied, his words barely louder than a whisper.

John chuckled, his hand snaking down the detective's arm and locking their hands together. Sherlock stared at their interlocked hands but made no move to break their contact. The doctor tugged him to his room and watched as the detective got under the covers.

John wanted to tuck the man in, but he was afraid the gesture would be met with scorn, so he abstained. Instead, he watched the man fall asleep, a strange protective urge overwhelming him along with another foreign emotion. Slightly afraid, he quietly and quickly left the bedroom and gently closed the door behind him.

* * *

The doctor awoke to silence in the flat. Trudging down the stairs, he was afraid for what he would find. Had Sherlock done something horrible to the flat while John slept?

No, he hadn't. Relief filled John before he realized the flat was empty. He looked around, worried when the experiments appeared abandoned. He walked down to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Has Sherlock left the flat?"

"Not that I noticed dear. Are you two having another domestic?"

"No."

He politely excused himself and went back up to the flat. There was one room he hadn't checked...

John walked to Sherlock's bedroom, praying that he was there and not off chasing a murderer. His silent pleas were answered; the detective was just sleeping. As he opened the door, a smell that was distinctly Sherlock assaulted his nose. Ignoring the urge to inhale deeply, he smiled at the sleeping man.

Sherlock was curled into a ball, his face peaceful as John heard a gentle snore. He immediately thought of a sleeping dragon, and his grin widened.

He stood for a moment longer, entranced by the innocence radiating from the detective's unguarded face before he re-closed the door.

* * *

John was reading a rather boring (compared to their adventures) detective novel when Sherlock emerged from his room, his hair wild and his bathrobe wrapped securely around the wraith-thin body.

"Sleep well?"

Sherlock grunted, his voice rough. He plopped on the couch, reaching for his patches. John got up, walking to the kitchen to make himself some tea.

"Would you like a cuppa?"

"Yes."

As John brought their drinks to the couch, he was surprised when the patches appeared to be untouched. To his further astonishment, Sherlock's arms were bare as he reached for the cup. John gave it to him, and sunk into his chair as Sherlock hummed contentedly. It was quiet, so low that John thought he was imagining it.

He was happy Sherlock hadn't put any patches on, though he was quite confused by their absence. Summing it up as an experiment, he ignored the bare arms once more.

Sherlock got up from the couch, empty cup in hand. John watched him in silence, befuddled by his actions. He was further shocked when the detective set the cup in the sink and filled it with water. He then returned to the couch and laid down, but not without noticing John's confused stare.

"What?"

"You put the dishes away."

"How very observant of you."

"Yes, well, I don't believe I have ever seen you clean up after yourself."

"I know how to clean up after myself, I just choose not to."

"Let me guess, boring?"

"Tedious."

John chuckled as he picked up his book and began reading once again.

"I can't believe you read that rubbish."

"It's Agatha Christie, how can you consider it rubbish?"

"The judge did it John, it was quite obvious really."

Slightly annoyed that Sherlock had ruined yet another book for him, he snapped the novel shut and set it on the end table. Sherlock turned his head away from the doctor, staring at the ceiling.

Feeling bored, John got up from his chair and grabbed his laptop, heading to his room. He didn't want to disturb Sherlock while he was thinking.

He checked his emails and his blog, though neither of them provided much of a distraction. His mind kept wandering back to the blood-drained corpse. Disgusted, he shook his head, as though a simple jostle of his brain could send the horrific image flying out of his mind.

His thoughts began circling around Sherlock's face while he slept. He was amazed that this man, this eccentric brilliant man, allowed his apathetic mask to slip away, vulnerable, for John of all people. After all, wasn't he the quintessence of ordinary? Sure he was a military doctor, but wasn't he just like everybody else: participating in a job, buying groceries, making tea? Sure danger excited him, but that wasn't really a rare thing, what made him so special that he was allowed to see something that enthralled him more than Sherlock's brilliant mind and amazing deductions?

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing. Thankful for the distraction, he picked it up, befuddled at the number on his screen.

"Hello?"

* * *

**The book I was referencing was indeed by Agatha Christie, but I will not tell you which one. In the words of River Song, Spoilers! **

**Thank you for reading! :) **

**Feedback is much appreciated! **


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello?"

"John? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, why?"

"I tried calling Sherlock, but his phone is off."

"Off? His phone is never off."

"That's why I called you."

"I see. What's going on?"

"We found another body.

"Decapitated and drained of blood?"

"Yep."

After getting the location of the corpse, John ended the call. He grabbed his jacket and went down to the flat.

The detective was stroking his violin absentmindedly when John entered the room. He wasn't expecting to be noticed by Sherlock, but as soon as he walked through the doorway, the intelligent (green? grey? blue?) eyes fixed upon him. The call forgotten, John met his eyes. They silently stared until John's phone chimed. He sighed as he pulled it out of his pocket; Lestrade had texted him further details about the crime scene.

"Lestrade called, they found another corpse."

Sherlock remained silent, a slight nod the only indication that he heard the doctor. Something akin to a scowl furrowed on the detective's face.

"Why was your phone off?"

Sherlock huffed, setting the violin aside as he left the couch. He made another irritated sound as he grabbed his coat and scarf, flinging them on as he trudged down the stairs. It was an odd sight, to see the detective act completely annoyed by a corpse. After having what would have normally been called "boring" days by Sherlock, the news of another strange death ought to have made him ecstatic, right?

He sighed, wondering not for the first time if he was ever going to understand his eccentric flat mate.

* * *

The cab ride was filled with tense silence, and John fled the vehicle as soon as it stopped beside the crime scene. Sherlock was moving at a ridiculously slow pace.

Lestrade rushed to the doctor and the detective, looking appalled. He began talking about the corpse, but Sherlock brushed him aside, ignoring the DI with a frostier than normal glare. John followed the sauntering detective, shrugging at a completely bewildered Lestrade.

They entered another empty room reeking of blood despite its scant amounts. This murder, though equally gruesome, was easier for John to look at, perhaps because he had already seen a corpse with the same bone-chilling injuries, and he was able to observe more similarities between the corpses beyond the cause of death.

The head, also one of a female, sported medium-length chestnut brown hair, pale skin, full lips, and big brown eyes that, under normal circumstances, would've been beautiful. The body was well-proportioned, medium height, and equally pale.

All of these details, even the bright blue nail polish, were shared by the first body. There was another smell John was able to distinguish under the metallic stench.

"Nail polish." The detective said, his rough voice slicing through the tense silence as it finished John's train of thought. "The nails were painted after the death, same as the first corpse."

"Why didn't you include that in your first analysis?" Lestrade innocently questioned. John, equally puzzled, turned and looked at Sherlock. The detective didn't answer them; he merely continued looking at the body and acting as though they weren't in the room.

He suddenly stood up straight and, glaring at the corpse, walked to John and Lestrade.

"Got anything else?" John asked, averting his eyes from the dead woman.

"A few more ideas, yes." He grabbed John's arm lightly, leading him out of the room, but not before glaring once more at Lestrade. John mouthed a sorry at the slightly angered DI before allowing himself to be tugged away from the crime scene.

They hustled outside without seeing Anderson or Sally, much to John's relief. While he had no qualms about defending Sherlock from their jealous barbs, he was worried that if the detective ran into them today, he would make his usual snide remarks about their _activities _seem cordial.

Sherlock held the police tape up for John to walk under; the action was no longer necessary but the detective continued to do it and the doctor continued to enjoy it.

As a cab drove up to the men, Sherlock lightly squeezed John's arm (or was that his imagination?) before releasing it. They entered the vehicle, John's arm tingling slightly from the loss of the warmth from Sherlock's grasp.

* * *

An hour or so later, John was sitting in his chair, stubbornly continuing the mystery book. Just because Sherlock ruined the ending didn't mean he couldn't still enjoy it... Somewhat.

Looking up from his novel, he glanced at Sherlock. He was studiously looking into his microscope, no doubt examining some sort of bacteria or mold.

They hadn't talked since the crime scene; John sensed that the detective was in no mood to discuss the murders, so he kept his mouth shut. Instead of speaking, when the men got home, John walked to the kitchen, made them both tea, and tried to continue reading the book.

Though the silence was stifling for the doctor, Sherlock appeared to be grateful. When the detective reached for the cup, his fingers brushed over John's with considerably less stealth than normal. John, surprised, glanced up at Sherlock, only to glimpse a grateful smile on his face. Flabbergasted, the doctor nodded his head once before leaving the kitchen.

With that tiny brush, the silence became comfortable. Sherlock kept looking into the microscope and John kept reading the book. John didn't chastise Sherlock for the severed hand in the fridge next to the milk; Sherlock didn't further ruin the plot for John.

It was the sort of night John loved at the flat. He was sure Sherlock hated the monotony, but the detective hadn't complained once about being bored since he awoke.

An hour passed in this comfortable manner, both of the men still in separate parts of the flat. John had just finished Agatha Cristie's novel. While it was good, he didn't enjoy it as much as he expected to.

"How was the book?" Sherlock unexpectedly inquired. John didn't know whether he should be flattered or worried at the random query.

"Good."

"But obviously not as good as you were expecting."

"Maybe you shouldn't have spoiled it for me." John teased, sensing rather than seeing the smirk that stretched across Sherlock's angular face.

The detective left the microscope and moved towards his skull. While a smirk no longer graced the apathetic face, Sherlock's eyes twinkled with mirth as he lightly traced the sagittal suture. Tapping the frontal bone, the detective sunk gracefully into his leather chair and stared at the doctor's book.

"Did you want to read it?" John joked.

Sherlock snorted derisively. He leaned forward and rubbed his head in frustration, patches still absent.

"Why aren't you wearing nicotine patches?"

"Don't you want me to be healthier?" Sherlock defensively snapped.

"Yes."

"Then why does it matter?"

"I was just curious."

Silence reigned. Sherlock's inquisitive stare was boring into John, though he tried to ignore it. After a few minutes of avoiding the detective's eyes, he felt the stare go away, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. John dreaded Sherlock's upcoming harsh reprimand.

"Is that... Is that what friends do?"

"Be curious?" John was befuddled; that certainly wasn't what he was expecting to hear.

"No... Care about each other. Is that something normal in friendship?"

"Yes." John smiled warmly at Sherlock, despite the sadness the innocent question aroused. He was sad that the detective hadn't ever experienced true friendship before; he was angry that no one else had been kind enough for Sherlock to open up to. He was upset that no one else saw the brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes.

At the same time, John was honored that Sherlock deemed him worthy of friendship.

Sherlock glanced away from the doctor, nodding his head once as he moved to the window.

They lapsed back into comfortable silence; the detective stared dispassionately at the scant amount of pedestrians as they walked, some briskly, to destinations easily deducible to Sherlock. John's gaze wandered over the flat, his eyes unfocused as his head ached slightly from his numerous chaotic thoughts. He was trying not to think too much about the strange warmth in his chest as he thought about Sherlock choosing him over the millions of people in the world as a companion and friend. _It's just you feeling happy because a genius thought you were worthy to be on friendly levels with; Sherlock is just your close (though he wouldn't even think about how close) friend. _

John, desiring distraction from his foreign emotions, succumbed to his desire for tea. He rose from his comfortable seat and ventured to the experiment-ridden kitchen. He ignored the severed hand that still oozed blood (thankfully located on its own otherwise barren shelf) and reached for the milk.

Once the tea had been successfully made, John poured the succulent beverage into two cups and placed one of them on the windowsill in front of the brooding detective.

The doctor stepped back, admiring the dark grey storm clouds. As though the detective could read his mind, Sherlock moved out of the way, picking up his tea, allowing John to get a better view. John moved towards the window, eyes still locked on the sky.

The men were now practically shoulder-to-shoulder, with Sherlock slightly behind John. He could feel the warmth radiating from the cold (to everyone but John and Mrs. Hudson) detective, and he resisted the urge to lean back into Sherlock's chest.

They hadn't realized how close they were standing next to each other until John, having seen enough of the beautiful clouds, turned around, his face mere centimeters away from Sherlock's shoulders.

John's eyes met Sherlock's, bashfulness forgotten at the barely-hidden _emotion _in the aquamarine eyes. John couldn't move away if he wanted to. His distracted mind finally caught up with the implications of such a thought, and his cheeks reddened. He would've fled the room that instant if it hadn't been for some mysterious glint in the detective's eyes. John allowed himself to imagine that the strange yet entrancing stare had something to do with himself. John's eyes widened when Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly toward the stunned doctor.

* * *

**Thank you for reading, favoriting, following and reviewing! **

**I didn't think I would enjoy writing this story as much as I do! I will try to post another chapter in the next few days... But most likely it will be posted next weekend. Have I mentioned how excited I am for Catching Fire and the 50th anniversary of Doctor Who? **

**Anyways, thank you again for reading!**

**Feedback is much appreciated :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**I said I would try to post another chapter, and I did! Granted, it is a filler chapter, but it's an update nonetheless. **

**The next chapter will have more of the case; it isn't done yet! **

* * *

John's eyes met Sherlock's, bashfulness forgotten at the barely-hidden _emotion _in the aquamarine eyes. John couldn't move away if he wanted to. His distracted mind finally caught up with the implications of such a thought, and his cheeks reddened. He would've fled the room that instant if it hadn't been for some mysterious glint in the detective's eyes. John allowed himself to imagine that the strange yet entrancing stare had something to do with himself. John's eyes widened when Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly toward the stunned doctor.

He couldn't breath, couldn't _move, _as Sherlock's mouth lifted ever-so-slightly in a smile...

The door suddenly opened; the intruder froze at the sight of the two men standing very close to each other by the window.

"Oh dear me, I'm so sorry! You weren't answering your door, so I'd thought I would just... Um... I'll come back later." Mrs. Hudson's embarrassed yet satisfied interruption broke the spell over John.

He just about jumped away from Sherlock though the action was in vain, Mrs. Hudson had left, chuckling softly. He couldn't look at Sherlock; he couldn't even acknowledge him. What just happened?

John practically fled up to his room, slamming the door shut as he sat on his bed.

Why had Sherlock gotten so close to him? Why had Sherlock looked as though he was going to...

No. No, it was impossible. The only person, that John knew of, that had ever made Sherlock interested in them in such a way was Irene Adler. If anyone was the detective's match, it was her. She prized her brilliant mind, like Sherlock, though she used her body for a different sort of transport.

John, although a doctor, was not brilliant. He was a broken military veteran with a psychosomatic limp and wounded shoulder. Sure Sherlock cured him of his limp, but that didn't erase the fact that John still had one.

He had been healed by a self-proclaimed sociopathic consulting detective out of pity and a craving for praise. John's unresolved and most definitely _heterosexual _feelings towards Sherlock stemmed from gratitude. He was most definitely _not _crushing on his flat mate.

The doctor sharply nodded his head once as he associated his feelings with gratitude.

Lying down on his bed, he fell asleep, completely exhausted.

* * *

When John awoke, it wasn't to violin screeching, gunshots, or rhythmic pacing. The flat was completely silent.

It was a nice change from the rude awakenings he was accustomed to.

Grabbing his bathrobe, he walked down to the flat. The detective was nowhere to be found, not even in his bedroom. Slightly worried, John pulled out his laptop. Sherlock was probably just at the morgue or something.

After checking his email and blog, John turned on the telly, mindlessly watching an episode of Doctor Who. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock, an hour after John woke up, entering the flat. He bounded up the stairs and burst into the room with his usual flair.

He ignored John completely as he bustled about, flitting through the kitchen before sitting in his leather chair.

They continued the rest of the day in an odd silence. It wasn't tense or awkward, but it wasn't entirely comfortable either. Sherlock didn't stare at John like he had been doing for the past few days, and John tried his best not to corner Sherlock and demand answers. John only allowed himself a few innocent glances, though every time he looked, Sherlock didn't appear any different.

Both of the men had been acting slightly different than normal the past few days. Sherlock had seemed... Happy. Not the childlike glee at an interesting murder; not the extreme euphoria they shared when a case was successfully closed.

It was the satisfaction John had witnessed when an experiment was going well.

His heart stopped, then plummeted.

All of this, all of the increased touches and indirect declarations of friendship, was one of Sherlock's _experiments. _

It made sense to John; it really did. Why would such a fantastic genius be genuinely caring towards a perfectly ordinary _dull _man?

John got up and entered the kitchen, desperately making tea. He needed something solid, something routine, something _real, _to bring him back to earth.

He made two cups, as was the routine, and finished the day in silence.

* * *

A week passed by, thankfully different than the emotional rollercoaster the first few days were.

They reverted back to their normal banter, though it lacked the same warmth John had witnessed.

They didn't touch at all, not even brush each other's shoulder when they walked. Although there wasn't a literal brick wall separating them, John felt as though there were. He tried his best to mask his disappointment and hurt, striving to appear that everything was alright. No one seemed to notice his struggle, not even Sherlock.

He was thankful it appeared effortless; he was thankful for his acting skills.

It wasn't easy for John to go back; it wasn't effortless or painless. The first day of normalcy, John was frightened that Sherlock would discover the façade, but no discovery was made or proclaimed.

John then remembered that Sherlock didn't understand emotion; he realized that Sherlock might never figure out how much he had hurt the doctor. Sherlock didn't understand how heartless it was to mess with your friend's emotions as a mere _experiment. _Then again, the detective often proclaimed himself to lack a heart, metaphorically of course, and it would make sense that the detective was ignorant of how not to treat a friend.

John wasn't sure if it hurt more that Sherlock had experimented on him, or that Sherlock wouldn't be able to figure out for himself that John ached, much less the depth of his pain.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! **

**Until next weekend! :) **


	5. Chapter 5

**Early update! I actually had time to write for once AND I wasn't dealing with writers block, which is practically a miracle! :D**

**I apologize for making John go back to doubting Sherlock in the last chapter; it was the only thing I could see him doing at that point. While I do not think of John as a weak and wimpy man (I actually abhor when people write him as such and I try not to portray him like that), I do feel like if Sherlock were to show him affection not in the realm of friendship, he would assume that it was for an experiment. I also wanted to show John beginning to see his affections towards Sherlock for what they really are, and I think that he would realize this the best when he thought that the detective was merely messing around. **

**With that in mind, I will try not to make him lapse back into doubt that drastically again. **

**Thank you for the 900 + views! **

**Enjoy! :) **

* * *

It was an unusually sunny day in London; rays of sunlight streamed through the open windows at Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, scanning a newspaper. John was sitting at his laptop, typing furiously.

He wasn't on his blog; he wasn't emailing anyone. John was typing furiously in an unsaved Word Document. In it, he vented about whatever was bothering him. Currently, that was Sherlock. It was killing him to keep his hurt and anger out of sight at the revelation that Sherlock toyed with his emotions as an experiment.

John would type a paragraph, sometimes composed of complete sentences or sometimes composed of random words, and delete it. He wrote twelve paragraphs that morning, often repeating himself, about his friend. They had escalated from scathing remarks and angry rants to detailed paragraphs about Sherlock himself. He typed four hundred words about Sherlock glancing out of the window, without looking twice at the man, then deleted it.

His paragraphs then morphed to John confessing his feelings, the hurt, rage, despair, and love he felt towards his flat mate.

Currently, however, John was rambling about his boredom. Without cases to focus on, the men were restless. John still went to his hospital shift every day, but the hours spent there were split between caring for patients and reading Sherlock's numerous random texts. Sarah sent him disapproving glances every now and again when his phone buzzed, but she knew that if Sherlock set his mind to doing something, there was very little that would stop him.

He finished the paragraph, his index finger holding down the backspace key as he glanced up, desperate for something to do.

A piercing ring sliced through the silence. The men's heads snapped up simultaneously, grins on their faces.

"Client!" They both exclaimed. John set aside his laptop and marched down to the door while Sherlock walked over to the desk and sat in the chair.

John opened the door, smothering his excited grin. It wasn't polite to show that someone's problems brought the pair happiness. Sherlock may have no qualms about it, but John did.

A young man in his late twenties was standing outside the flat. He was taller than John though shorter than Sherlock with strawberry blonde hair, pale white skin, and an athletic body. He wore a sweatshirt and jeans, and his hands were stuffed inside the front pocket. He grinned at John as the door opened, though he was clearly grieving.

"Is this where Mr. Holmes lives?"

"Yes, follow me." John said, motioning to the flat. The doctor felt the young man staring at him as they walked into the flat, but he brushed the thought away.

The man introduced himself as George Chase, shaking both of the men's hands. George didn't seem to care much for Sherlock, pumping his hand once, but he took his time shaking John's, his hand caressing the doctor's as he stared into the slightly bewildered man's eyes. The handshake lasted longer than socially acceptable, but George finally pulled away and sat down. John, sitting next to Sherlock though slightly ahead of him, didn't see what his flat mate thought of the unusual attention.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock's voice broke through the awkward silence, sounding slightly angry. John figured it must've had to do with the lack of attention, and he felt a little bit of anger at the thought. Just because he wasn't a brilliant detective didn't mean that he deserved to be ignored.

George didn't seem offended in the slightest, then again, his eyes weren't focused on the detective. "I came here from my hometown. A few weeks ago, my sister was murdered. I was wondering if you would help."

"Obviously you came to me for help, why else would you be here?" Sherlock bit back, unmistakable anger in his voice.

"There have been a string of murders, but it was the last straw when Harriet was killed," George continued, blatantly ignoring Sherlock, staring into John's eyes. "Four others died before her, but Harriet was the only one found. I think they are connected."

"I'm so sorry for your loss." John consoled, truly apologetic.

"Thank you. I miss her very much." George replied, a sad smile stretching across his face.

"Yes, yes, you're sorry, John's sorry, the whole world is sorry! Just tell us the facts; your emotions on the matter are unimportant." Sherlock snapped.

"Don't listen to him," John said, turning back to glare at the detective. "Continue when you can."

"When she went missing, I searched high and low for her body. I found it two weeks later, resting beside a tree on the outskirts of our town. She had been decapitated, and her body was naked, mangled, and appeared to be drained of blood."

This silenced Sherlock and John immediately. They looked at each other, John shocked and Sherlock apathetic, though his eyes flashed with uncertainty for a split second. It happened so quickly that John wasn't sure if he had imagined it or not. The doctor turned away, his mouth opening as he prepared to speak when Sherlock interrupted him.

"Can you remember anything important about her corpse, or have you forgotten what it looked like?" Sherlock questioned. His rude response infuriated John; the man was about to turn around and punch the bastard when George began searching his pocket.

"I have something better than that, actually." George said, pulling out an iPhone. Unlocking it, he pulled up photos of the corpse and gave the phone to John, his fingers brushing the doctor's.

John thanked him and began looking at the photos. Harriet's corpse looked exactly like the first two they encountered, right down to the blue nail polish. He was puzzled by the extreme similarities, but his shock reached new heights when something rested on his shoulders.

A pale, elegant hand rested on his left shoulder. He hadn't seen George move...

John turned his head, his nose almost colliding with Sherlock's cheek. The detective's head was leaning over John's shoulder, and his hand was gently squeezing his other shoulder. John involuntarily leaned into the comforting touch, his pent-up frustration at the detective eradicated by the simple touch.

A throat cleared and the spell was broken. John's eyes flew open (had he really closed them?) and took in George's bewildered and abashed face.

"I'm so sorry! I had no idea... I wouldn't have... I didn't realize..."

"You see but you do not observe." The detective coolly replied, removing his hand and head from John's shoulders as he leaned back into his own chair. John's skin was tingling all over, warmth pulsing through the spots where Sherlock's skin met his. He was barely aware of George apologizing.

He was still trying to calm down when he heard George explain the rest of the information. Everyone in the town believed the murderer was Bianca Hentsworth, a maid at the local inn, but George was confident she didn't do it. He requested Sherlock's help once more, though with much more politeness, and Sherlock accepted. George told him where the town and the inn were located before fleeing the flat.

A suitcase banged against the hard floor in front of John, snapping him out of his bewildered mind.

"Hurry up John! We have an inn to visit! We should be there for a week at most, so pack accordingly."

Sherlock left the room as quickly as he entered, the familiar joy of a new case filling the detective.

John sighed and picked up the suitcase, heading to his room. It was going to be a long week.

* * *

John stood inside the rental car building, waiting for Sherlock to pick a vehicle to take to the remote town.

He sat in one of the uncomfortable lobby chairs, eating a bag of crisps, when none other than Sally Donavan walked in. Upon seeing the familiar doctor, she sauntered over to him, dragging a suitcase behind her.

"Where have you been Sally?" John politely inquired, though he really couldn't care less.

"I was out of town looking after my sister; she just moved into a new flat and she needed my help with some things. I'm just returning the rental car. Why are you here?"

"I'm waiting for Sherlock to get us a vehicle; we are going out of town for a case."

"That's why Freak isn't here beside you. I was wondering if you finally took my advise." She condescendingly reprimanded.

"I'm not going to leave Sherlock because you think he is going to murder us all one day."

"Whatever you think is best, but don't come crying to me when Freak tries to kill you."

"Don't call him that," he practically growled at the snarky woman.

"Why do you do that? Defend him like that?"

"You don't get it do you?" A gruff laugh erupted from John's lips. "You have got it all wrong."

"Exactly what do I have wrong?" She demanded, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"He is one of the most undeserving people in the world of that title," John reprimanded, shaking his head. "People always ask me why I am friends with Sherlock or why I put up with him or how do I put up with him, but they are all asking the wrong questions. That man, that _brilliant _man uses his extraordinary abilities to help your miserable excuse of a police force. You mock him and warn me that he will be the one causing murders someday, if not now, because he enjoys death, but that isn't why he helps. He helps because he can and he feels obligated to; he helps to keep the city safe. Sure Sherlock likes to show off a little, sure he likes it when I compliment him, but don't we all want that? Don't we all crave approval? Furthermore, it would be more logical to ask Sherlock why and how he puts up with me. He leaves bloody limbs in the fridge and experiments with potentially fatal chemicals and such on our kitchen table, yes, but he does those things to gain knowledge. I cannot tell you how much his outlandish experiments help with clues in cases _you _deem impossible. Yes, his methods are unorthodox, but he does them for the sake of others, intentionally or otherwise. If anyone in our relationship is the burden, it's me. I have no real use; everyone knows it. My medical knowledge isn't as necessary as he makes it seem, and he knows how to defend himself. Sherlock lets me tag along with him on cases, he sits and waits for me to eat regardless of how much other people need his time, and he remembers things about me when he could store more important information in his mind. I realize you probably cannot process the fact that Sherlock is a good man, but, for the love of God, at least show him some respect."

Sally gaped, her jaw dropped and her eyes as wide as saucers. John was shocked that his rambling had such a huge impact on her; he hadn't meant to say most of what flew out of his mouth, despite its validity.

John didn't think he could've ever been more surprised to see Sally Donovan looking a tad bit remorseful; however, he was wrong once more.

He noticed that her eyes were not fixed on him; rather, they were fixed on something or someone behind John.

He didn't need to turn around to know that she was staring at Sherlock; he didn't need to ask to know that Sherlock heard every word out of John's mouth.

* * *

**Hopefully I wrote them more in character, but let me know if I didn't do them justice. **

**The next chapter will be up in a few days. **

**Thank you for reading! :) **


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for all of the favs/follows! Thank you hinatahime666, complicatedsimplystated, ELLYNARA3, Thepenhand, Nicole, and TakingItOutOnTheWall for the wonderful reviews! **

**It took me forever to decide exactly how I wanted to write Sherlock's reaction! I didn't know if I wanted to make him rude or sweetish (for Sherlock) or if he was going to ignore it all together, but I finally made my decision. I hope you enjoy! :)**

* * *

The tension coiled and thickened between the men like a serpent circling its prey; John's heart was beating loud and fast, echoing through his chaotic mind.

John hadn't even known exactly why he had exploded like that; how in the world was he going to explain himself? Every word had been true, yes, but it was still highly unlikely that Sherlock would accept that John wasn't able to explain his actions as they hadn't been planned.

His thoughts were interrupted when Sally cleared her throat, and John turned back to her. She was torn between looking smug and looking apologetic, but the obvious turmoil suddenly disappeared from her face.

John didn't move; he felt Sherlock standing slightly behind him. The doctor suddenly felt himself being tugged away from a dumbstruck Sally Donavan. He wasn't aware of the hand pressed lightly against the small of his back until they reached the vehicle. He wasn't aware of the detective's hand clasping his, fingers entwined, leading him to the truck until Sherlock stopped, opened the door for John, and relinquished his hold on the doctor. Slamming the door shut, Sherlock walked to the driver's seat and got in, buckling his seat belt and starting the truck.

Still stupefied, John stared at the window. What was he supposed to say? Was he even supposed to say anything? He settled for silence as the detective hadn't said a word, his gaze resolutely fixed on the road ahead.

The silence was stifling; it was almost worse than having to explain himself. He was afraid of hearing Sherlock's certain disapproval (why would it matter to you whether or not Sally called him a freak?), so John clamped his lips shut.

"John." The word was a whisper and a shout; it was overflowing with emotion and it was apathetic.

"Yes?"

"When you said... What you said... It was... Good..."

"You're welcome." John replied. He knew an attempt at a thank you when he heard one, and pleasure shot through him at the knowledge that he had, unintentionally, earned Sherlock's gratitude. Relief overwhelmed John when he realized that this was all that would be said on the matter.

The silence returned, though it was infinitely more comfortable than before. John relaxed into the leather seat and allowed his mind to wander to the murder at hand.

An hour passed in such a manner. As John's discomfort diminished, Sherlock's seemed to grow. Severing John's thought process, Sherlock sighed loudly.

"Do you really think you hold me up?"

"Well I don't serve a real purpose now do I?"

"You keep me alive."

"I shoot people when they are trying to kill you; anyone can do that."

"You do more than that. You continue to pester me about food and sleep. You continue to stay by my side when I repel everyone in the vicinity."

"Me staying with you when you are insufferable is just a show of friendship; it doesn't relate to keeping you alive."

"I don't do drugs anymore..." Sherlock argued, his voice dropping to a whisper as it trailed off. He looked as though it pained him to say these things, and John suddenly understood.

"Sherlock... You really don't have to do this. I already know you are thankful; you don't need to replicate my actions. I was only defending you."

He smiled at Sherlock, and the detective sighed again, pulling to the side of the otherwise empty road. When the truck was parked, he turned and faced the doctor.

Wordlessly, Sherlock began analyzing John with his stare, beginning at the doctor's feet and traveling slowly up to his face. Once their eyes locked, John froze completely. Something about the gaze seemed more urgent than normal, desperately searching for something the doctor got the feeling Sherlock didn't want to find.

Whatever Sherlock saw seemed to please him, because the detective turned back to the steering wheel, completely silent, and began driving once more, his eyes continuing the vigilant scanning of the road ahead.

John didn't know whether he ought to feel relieved or worried that Sherlock didn't speak more on the matter.

* * *

Another hour passed on the road before they found the town George informed Sherlock of. It was small and idyllic, with stone cottages, towering pine trees, and a few blocks of stores, restaurants, and businesses. The inn the men were to reside in was one of two that John could see in the whole town.

Sherlock pulled the truck up to the building and parked. They grabbed their bags and walked into the lobby, Sherlock slightly behind John, his eyes analyzing everything from the elderly couple sitting at a table to the relatively bare walls. John strolled up to the front desk, his eyes not straying from the path ahead.

A perky blonde was the only person working the desk. She scribbled something violently on a notepad before looking up at John.

"Can I help you?" She questioned, flirtatiously grinning as she leaned forward on the desk.

"Yes, I do believe I reserved two rooms." John grinned back, though without much flirtation. For whatever reason, the beautiful woman's interest didn't inspire the doctor to flirt back.

"Last name?"

"Holmes."

"As in, the detective?" Her eyes widened excitedly.

"Nope, I'm his friend. Sherlock's right-" John turned slightly to his left, expecting the detective to be right beside him, but the man was standing in the middle of the lobby, moving in a slow circle as he continued analyzing. He reminded John of a child; Sherlock's eyes gleamed with excitement only John could see, though it stemmed from an interesting murder case rather than the stay at the inn itself. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed, watching his friend blink, as if in a trance, and saunter to the desk.

"I love reading your stories! A Study in Pink is my absolute favorite, though they are all brilliant!" She exclaimed, respectfully rather than flirtatiously. She turned her attention to the computer screen, then frowned. "Unfortunately, the hotel is completely full, and we only have a single-bed room left. Would that be alright?"

"It'll do." Sherlock said, his cold tone cutting off John's beginning protests. "You know I don't sleep much, if at all, on a case; having a single bed will not be an issue."

John turned and faced the detective, arguments dying on his lips as he stared into Sherlock's icy eyes. His thoughts were extinguished, all logic purged from his mind. They stood, staring at the other for a few minutes, for reasons unfathomable to John (what was he upset about again?). Suddenly, he turned back to the desk, the blonde's satisfied smirk snapping him out of his trance. John curtly nodded his assent, face bright red.

"Are you sure you guys aren't a couple?" She teased as she handed John two room keys. Sherlock stood straighter (if that was even possible) and glared at the unfazed woman before sharply turning around and walking to the elevators, his wool coat billowing gracefully.

"Positive." John curtly replied, taking the room keys and following Sherlock to their room on the second and top floor.

* * *

John sat in the chocolate-brown couch, his laptop perched in his lap and Sherlock nowhere to be found.

Upon depositing his baggage in the room, Sherlock hastily exited, saying something about looking around the hotel.

The doctor stayed in, savoring the privacy of the empty room. At first, it was nice. John got to watch whatever he wanted on the telly without listening to Sherlock rant about the idiocy of the plotline, characters, or acting. John could update his blog without the detective leaning over his shoulder, reading it, and scoffing. John could read a book, or at least the first chapter, and not have the whole thing ruined by Sherlock.

In other words, it was horrifically dull and John abhorred every second.

But he stayed behind on purpose; he needed some time alone, as much as he hated it. John needed some time with himself to sort out his conflicted emotions.

His hurt and anger resurfaced, destroying any positivity that had emerged after Sherlock's reaction to John's outburst. Now that he was thinking clearly, John was able to see that the affection the detective showed towards him was merely a mixture of experimentation and a lack of understanding of how to properly express his gratitude.

The experimentation aspect was quite simple; while Sherlock had experimented previously just to understand emotions, the hands guiding him to the truck were to soothe the doctor. What Sherlock didn't understand was that the tension the touches might've evoked wouldn't have been because of his outburst, he was confused that it happened but neither embarrassed nor apologetic, it was because of the touch itself. And, while the gesture might've been carried out with the best of intentions, it simultaneously relaxed and frightened the doctor.

Although John hated himself for it, the simple gestures Sherlock showed him at the dealership rocked him to the core. He hadn't noticed the contact much as it happened, too bewildered at Sherlock's eavesdropping (though really that shouldn't have shocked him), but afterwards, his skin tingled and burned where the detective's hands had been. John's skin had only been exposed when their hands were joined, but his whole body was on fire from the minor contact.

That sort of reaction was also decidedly _not _that of mere friendship, which scared John the most. So he liked Sherlock a little; so what? It wasn't as if it was a serious attachment...

Except it was. The thought of living in a world in which Sherlock didn't exist scared the doctor. The thought of living in a world in which Sherlock never found out and their friendship stayed the same for the rest of their lives upset the doctor. The thought of living in a world in which Sherlock disdainfully abandoned John simply because he had feelings beyond friendship repulsed the doctor.

At this point, he didn't know which of the three was the worst.

Of all of the people in the world, why did he have to love Sherlock Holmes? John wasn't even gay for crying out loud! How could this have happened? Why did it have to happen to John?

Why was the one person John ever loved the one person who abhorred sentiment of any level. If he couldn't deal with friendly sentiment, how in the world was he supposed to deal with love?

There was only one other logical explanation for the out-of-character reaction to John's impulsive defense; Sherlock had a lack of understanding of how to properly express his gratitude, so he resorted to negating the doctor's words.

Did Sherlock really appreciate John that much? So much so that Sherlock attributed his survival to him?

Did it really matter?

John would stick with Sherlock no matter what, personal feelings aside. Sherlock's safety was more important than John's emotional distress and, if the detective truly attributed his survival to the doctor, who was he to reject him?

If Sherlock found out about John's feelings, then John would do whatever Sherlock thought was best. If the detective wanted him to leave, John would obey, no matter how much pain it would cause. If the detective wanted friendship only, John would never speak of or show his emotions on the subject.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone opening their hotel door. John looked up, listening to the familiar footsteps as the door closed and Sherlock walked to the desk.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" John inquired.

The detective ignored him, staring at the tan wall. John sighed and got out his bedclothes, walking to the bathroom to change.

When he was done getting ready for bed, John stepped out of the bathroom. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position at the desk, his eyes still boring into the dull wall.

John slipped under the covers and closed his eyes.

As sleep took hold, John ignored the nagging feeling that something or someone was staring at him.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! **

**Next chapter shall be from Sherlock's point of view. It'll probably be posted this weekend. :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sherlock's POV! :) **

* * *

The detective stuffed his bag in a corner, desperate to get out of the oppressive room. He needed air; he needed space.

Sherlock needed his mind back.

His mind wasn't solely analytical anymore; his mind palace wasn't full of information anymore. His thoughts now involved John; what would keep him safe, what would keep him happy. His mind palace now had a wing filled with information on the doctor.

He allowed himself a moment of panic when he realized that he was no longer outside their door; rather, Sherlock was in the bar area just around the corner from the lobby. It was a horrible thing that he couldn't get used to; thinking about John distracted him, so much so that he couldn't think about anything else. He didn't see the hallways or passerby's, he just saw John. Sherlock stood in the entrance, allowing himself a split second to refocus on the case at hand. Once his mind was purged of the offensive distractions, he swept into the relatively nice pub and sat on a stool, next to a hefty man.

The man beside Sherlock was in his forties and short with black, buzz-cut hair and brown beady eyes. He wasn't a man of manual labor- his scant muscle was hidden by layers of fat. His fingers were smudged with different types of ink, and his forehead had stress-induced wrinkles. There was chalk residue on the edge of his shirt sleeve. The lower-left area of his shirt had creases where a name tag would've been pinned. This man was a multi-level English teacher at the local school.

"You look like you could use a pint." The man said, interrupting Sherlock's mental deductions. He nodded wordlessly, and the bartender pushed one in front of the detective.

"Long day. What about you?" Sherlock replied, sipping some of the ghastly beverage.

"Same. The kids just don't retain anything! No matter how many times I tell them the basic rules of grammar, they still refuse to remember them! AND they are supposed to be the advanced class! I mean, with recent circumstances, I can understand being somewhat distracted, but they have been flushing information since before all of the deaths."

"What deaths?" Sherlock inquired, faking the shock and apprehension though his curiosity was genuine.

"You haven't heard? There have been five deaths in the past few months; all of them teenage females and all of them murdered within the vicinity of this inn."

"How were they murdered?"

"I haven't seen the pictures myself, but, from what I've heard, they were decapitated and almost completely bloodless. It's sickening."

A few other people who had been behind the two men chimed into their conversation, though their commentary was centered on emotion rather than logic and thus unimportant.

Sherlock burst from the stool without another word, slamming money on the counter for the drink he barely indulged in, and fled the bar. The English teacher didn't seem to notice his abrupt departure; he had been too busy guzzling his fourth pint for the night. Sherlock left the lobby and began wandering about the outside of the inn, walking everywhere, even throughout the parking lot, to get a feel for the murderer's hunting grounds.

His thoughts began to wander to John once more. What was he doing in the room? Was he watching telly? Updating his blog?

No. Sherlock needed to stop thinking about his flat mate.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. _

He would not become weak; he would not lose control of himself. If sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, then love was a death blow.

* * *

Although it probably shouldn't have taken more than twenty-five minutes to analyze the areas surrounding the inn, Sherlock entered the building once more after two hours.

He sauntered by the same blonde receptionist they saw earlier, and he approached the desk.

"Are you sure every room is booked?"

"Positive." Even if he was Sherlock Holmes, it was clear she disliked it when others doubted her.

"Then why is the inn quiet and people scarce?"

"Look, I was there when they were all booked. It's not my fault some government official wanted to purchase most of our rooms for two weeks."

Mycroft. He should've known his brother would try to interfere in the case.

"So I shouldn't expect obtaining a new or additional room?"

"No. I'm sorry Mr. Holmes." She apologized, though only half genuine. The twinkle in her eye and the twitches at the corner of her red lips revealed the reason of her enjoyment; she was one of _those _fans. The ones who made a big deal over John being a "confirmed" bachelor; the ones constantly posting, on both of their websites, questions about whether or not they were an official couple.

He didn't dignify her with a response, merely giving her an icy once-over before walking away from the desk. Sherlock began walking through the halls of the rooms on the first floor. The walls were a mix between pasty yellow and beige, contrasting with the hunter green carpet. They were bare, save for the occasional yellow lamp. The doors were mahogany with brass plates bearing numbers.

It was completely silent; Sherlock couldn't hear any signs of life. He couldn't hear the faint tread of footsteps; he couldn't hear the faint sounds of conversation.

He walked through the hallways one last time before moving to the second floor.

It was the same as the first, horrible colors and silent rooms. He didn't run into any people entering or leaving.

He walked to their room, and stopped in front. Sherlock lifted his arm, prepared to enter, but he couldn't move. His hand shook slightly; he needed a smoke or his patches.

No. He told himself that he wouldn't do that again; he told himself that he could abstain. If anyone could do that, it was him. And if that wasn't motivating enough, Sherlock would quit because John didn't want him to indulge in the harmful chemicals.

* * *

The detective had stared at the door for a few minutes before turning around and walking away.

He wandered outside, not deducing anything about his surroundings, not thinking about his flat mate.

His mind was blank for the first time without the use of drugs.

There wasn't much behind the building, just the edge of a forest, and Sherlock wandered towards the trees. He walked further into the woods, stopping when he saw a stump, and sat upon it. He could still see the inn, yet he was far enough away to ensure privacy.

It was then that he allowed his thoughts to run wild, cluttering and clamoring. Perhaps facing his conflict would rid him of the constant worrying for his flat mate. Sherlock took a deep breath, and accessed his mind palace, using it not for a case, but for emotions. It was fitting that the first time to use the mind palace to analyze his emotions was for John.

He went back to what felt like the beginning, all those days ago, when he was closing a case in his palace. He remembered the satisfying thud as he closed the door to the room filled with information on a case involving a vengeful writer and a particularly nasty critic. It had been a creative, albeit easy to solve, case.

He remembered asking John to Angelo's, like they often did, with the addition of a simple experiment. He would show John affection and see the response. He helped the doctor into his coat twice and brushed his shoulder with his own while walking back to the flat.

_"You're eating?"_

_"You asked me to, remember?"_

_"Yes, but I didn't think you would listen."_

_"I always listen to you."_

Of course Sherlock listened to John; he might not always respond, but he always remembered what was said. Did John really not see that Sherlock cared?

_Caring is not an advantage. _

It wasn't, not really, for anyone except John. Of course, John could never know that Sherlock considered him to be the one person worth the effort and vulnerability, but he ought to know that Sherlock cared.

Caressing his violin that night, he allowed his emotions to be fully broadcasted in the only way he knew how. It was how he showed his frustration and rapturous enlightenment; it was how he showed his depression and euphoria.

He remembered needing to sleep the next day, and how John led the detective to his room, hands clasped. There wasn't an electric jolt like society believed, just warmth and a distinctly satisfactory feeling in his stomach.

It was why he grabbed John's arm at the second crime scene when Sherlock was frustrated at the scant information the corpse provided; the simple action of touching the doctor grounded him.

Touching someone normally repulsed him, abused and overdone by society, but the simple brushes and interlocked hands made him understand the appeal of human contact.

For most people, touching someone close sent their mind into chaos, every thought and fiber of their being focused on that person. For Sherlock, whose mind and being already valued John, touching the doctor put his thoughts at ease, silencing the vast palace of his mind.

It was a blessing and a curse to be so reliant on one person for silence.

John instinctively knew what Sherlock needed, and he offered it willingly to the detective. After the befuddling second corpse, John left Sherlock in silence, despite his obvious discomfort at the lack of conversation. Sherlock tried to compensate it with innocent brushes of fingertips as he received tea, but he wasn't sure if John understood the purpose.

Was it normal in friendship to have this sort of a relationship? This easy give-and-take, this symbiosis?

_"Is that... Is that what friends do?"_

_"Be curious?"_

_"No... Care about each other. Is that something normal in friendship?"_

_"Yes."_

The warm yet sad (not pitying; never pitying) smile John shot him sent shivers through the detective's body. Was friendship really this emotional?

It was the strange closeness of John later that evening as they stared at the city out the window, John looking at the clouds while Sherlock looked at the people. John finding beauty and Sherlock finding flaws.

It was too balanced between them, opposite yet exactly the same. Did people always _click _like this?

As John turned into Sherlock, clearly not noticing the closeness of their bodies until their eyes met and his face nearly touched the detective's shoulders, everything became clear.

Sherlock's experiment focusing on finding out just what John's feelings towards him were and how he could reciprocate (Sherlock could no longer lie to himself about the true purpose of his experiment) was too successful. John's pupils were blown wide; the veins in his neck beating in time to Sherlock's equally rapid heartbeat.

He was thankful Mrs. Hudson interrupted. How was he supposed to process this information; how was he supposed to respond? He understood the basics of what relationships consisted of, but he had no idea how to carry them out.

The screaming silence made it all too clear to Sherlock that he had screwed up big time, and the next week had consisted of trying to preserve any normalcy left over. He was grateful that the doctor made no acknowledgement of the bold (for Sherlock) advances.

Then George barged in. Clearly gay, with his carefully constructed outfit, abnormal amounts of product in his hair, and slightly flirtatious once-over he gave Sherlock upon first sighting. It made no difference whether or not George was interested in Sherlock, the detective really wasn't the person to flirt back with anyone, much less a client, but the man's obvious favoring of John sent Sherlock's mind into overdrive.

He could deal with the clingy girlfriends that John went through by the dozen; he knew John wouldn't be able to find a suitable mate with women that couldn't stand the thought of John valuing anything over themselves. But George was entirely different.

From the moment George walked into their flat, Sherlock knew that he possessed the sort of qualities that suited John perfectly. George was brilliant (though nothing like Sherlock), stable (dull), and, by societal standards, attractive. He was well off and didn't possess the desperate clinginess John's girlfriends did. George was the sort of person that could sweep John away from Sherlock.

So Sherlock bit back at George, until John looked like he was going to deck the pensive detective. Which prompted Sherlock to rest a hand on John's left shoulder, and his head on the right as he looked at George's iPhone in the doctor's tan hands. Sherlock reveled in George's stunned expression as stuttered his apologies.

_"I'm so sorry! I had no idea... I wouldn't have... I didn't realize..." _

_"You see but you do not observe." He is mine. Stay away. _

John was in a weird mood after that; Sherlock knew it was a surprise, but, in all honesty, he was disappointed. Did John really not anticipate Sherlock to be a possessive man?

_There. _That was the reason for Sherlock's experiments; that was the reason for Sherlock caring so much. He didn't want John to leave. It was a desperate move to make the one person who saw past Sherlock's sociopathic guise stay. It was a vain move to keep the one person who praised Sherlock within his vicinity.

It wasn't caring at all; it was the primal desire for appreciation.

That was why John's unexpected defense of Sherlock to Sally caused Sherlock to feel warm all over. That was why the detective desired the doctor's soothing touch; that was why Sherlock gave into the inexplicable urge to grab John's hand and press his hand into the small of John's back as he led the embarrassed man to their vehicle.

_"If anyone in our relationship is the burden, it's me." _

Sherlock didn't think he had ever heard a bigger lie in his whole life. It was bigger than Mycroft's blatant lies about what was going on in the government; it was bigger than his mother's protective lies about her abusive husband.

_"Do you really think you hold me up?"_

_"Well I don't serve a real purpose now do I?"_

_"You keep me alive."_

_"I shoot people when they are trying to kill you; anyone can do that."_

_"You do more than that. You continue to pester me about food and sleep. You continue to stay by my side when I repel everyone in the vicinity."_

_"Me staying with you when you are insufferable is just a show of friendship; it doesn't relate to keeping you alive."_

_"I don't do drugs anymore..."_

_"Sherlock... You really don't have to do this. I already know you are thankful; you don't need to replicate my actions. I was only defending you."_

Was that really why John's words bothered Sherlock so much? Was Sherlock's poor comforting really a desire to make John feel less embarrassed?

No, it couldn't have been. Sherlock was under no misconception about his acting skills; when it was necessary to appear emotional, he had no qualms nor problems with shedding false tears and spinning fake apologies or flattering falsehoods. If he wanted to appear grateful for and if he wanted to reciprocate John's display of loyalty, he could.

He couldn't say the right things because he only did that with a lying tongue; he didn't want to lie to John.

Sherlock didn't care that they would have to share a room; it wouldn't be much of a problem anyway. Although he was under no misconception about this case's particular difficulty, Sherlock was certain he could solve it without any serious mishaps between himself and the doctor.

Nodding his head once, sharply, Sherlock stood from the uncomfortable stump and made his way back to the hotel room.

* * *

As John got ready for sleep, Sherlock stared at the wall.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. _

___Caring is not an advantage._

_It wasn't caring at all; it was the primal desire for appreciation._

He chanted this in his head as he heard John slip under the covers.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. _

___Caring is not an advantage._

_It wasn't caring at all; it was the primal desire for appreciation._

He chanted this in his head as he resisted the urge to look at John.

It was stupid; of course he could look at his flat mate. Sherlock wasn't so weak that he couldn't look at John without doing something rash.

He glanced at John. The doctor was lying on his side, facing the detective. John's face was peaceful and calm, a small smile twitching at his lips though his breathing pattern indicated sleep.

As if in a trance, Sherlock got up out of his chair and moved to John. He leaned down, his nose overwhelmed with the smell of _John. _Resisting the urge to inhale deeply, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead in a chaste kiss.

Sherlock Holmes had lost the war.

* * *

**It was so challenging writing in Sherlock's perspective, but here it is! I did my best to make him in character; however, if I didn't do a good job, I apologize. **

**Next chapter will be back to John's perspective, but I might do a few more chapters of Sherlock's perspective in the future. **

**Thank you for reading! **

**Side note: The 50th was absolutely amazing! :D :D :D **


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you for the multiple reviews/follows/favorites! I am honored that you take the time to read my ramblings! **

**This is going back to John's POV, though I will do another Sherlock POV soon as I can; I actually really enjoyed it. :)**

* * *

John slept better than he had in a while, for unknown reasons, but he brushed aside his curiosity and sat up in the bed. No one else was in the hotel room, though when John looked at the clock on the side table, he saw a note.

_Went out to have another look around the inn. Meet me down for breakfast when you wake up _

_SH _

The corners of John's mouth quirked upwards upon reading the signature. Although Sherlock's handwriting was distinctive, John refused to tell the detective that writing his name was unnecessary. It would've resulted in Sherlock pressing John for a reason why, and the doctor didn't want to have to explain that Sherlock's handwriting was unforgettable because it reflected the man, scattered yet elegant.

Shrugging his reflections aside, John stood up from the bed and proceeded to get ready to head down to breakfast.

Half an hour later, the doctor strode into the dining hall. As his eyes swept over the tables, John glimpsed Sherlock sitting at a booth in the corner, staring at the other inhabitants. When his icy stare reached John, Sherlock barely looked at the doctor, moving his gaze towards the other end of the room.

John reached the table. He barely sat down before a waiter rushed towards their spot, his arms laden with several dishes. He hurriedly yet gracefully placed them on the table before the astounded doctor, not one plate placed before the detective. The waiter smiled, then bustled away to the kitchen.

"How did you remember what I like to eat in the morning?"

Sherlock looked up at John as though scandalized that he would think something like this wouldn't be remembered.

Oh. He had just about forgotten the detective's experiment. Stifling a sigh, he thanked Sherlock for the meal and began eating. The clinking of John's silverware was the only sound between the two men, and John was torn between relief and anxiety.

Relief that he didn't have to put up with mindless chatter (since when had JOHN ever been afraid of that?); anxiety that Sherlock's silence stemmed from enlightenment.

John peeked up at Sherlock, tearing his eyes away from the food for the first time since he questioned the detective's knowledge of his favorite dishes, only to find the icy orbs fixed upon himself. The doctor froze, his fork barely above the plate of scrambled eggs, their eyes locked upon the other. John wasn't sure what Sherlock could see in his eyes (he didn't really want to think about how much the detective could figure out), but John thought that, for a split second, warmth penetrated the icy apathetic gaze.

As soon as John realized how staring at his flat mate would appear, he dropped his gaze, loathing his burning cheeks.

The detective didn't seem to care that the doctor no longer met his stare; rather, he continued boring into the poor man as he ate. Sherlock looked as though it was of the utmost importance to analyze every little movement John made, and, while that wasn't uncommon for the detective to do, John restrained himself from fidgeting nervously. If he shifted even slightly in his seat, John knew that it would be noticed and immediately questioned.

It was another half an hour before John finished all of the food in front of him. At one point, Sherlock had huffed impatiently and John was sure he would leap out of the chair and leave; however, the man only grabbed one of his forks and began eating off of the doctor's plate.

Once the plates were clean, Sherlock just about leapt out of the chair, restraining himself slightly, as John stood and reached for his wallet.

"What are you doing?"

"Paying for breakfast." John's _obviously _didn't need to be voiced; Sherlock colored slightly at the doctor's tone.

"I already paid. Come along John!" Sherlock's _obviously _was one of disdain rather than surprise but it wasn't like Sherlock normally bought their food. It was either free because the owners felt they owed Sherlock, or John was left to pay when the detective abruptly left, often right in the middle of the doctor's meal.

"Where are we going?" John inquired, slowing his pace slightly as he caught up with Sherlock at the entrance of the hotel.

"We are going to the morgue to inspect the bodies."

John nodded his head, although he knew Sherlock couldn't see it, and hopped into the rental vehicle with the detective.

* * *

It took less than five minutes to find the morgue, a small, one-story building attached to the hospital, but Sherlock rushed out of the truck as though worried they would be late.

John sighed, alone in the car, before exiting and following Sherlock at a slower pace. Unlike the detective, John wasn't eager to see the bodies.

As excited as Sherlock appeared to be, he waited for John to enter the building before walking to one of the loitering workers, a tall brunette woman.

"Would it be alright if I inspected the corpses of the poor young female victims of a violent psychopath?" Sherlock inquired, gracefully stalking towards the woman. He was obviously flirting with her, and while that would've normally elicited internal mirth, John only was saddened by the act.

His kernel of hope that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock's affections weren't experimental towards him was shattered into a million pieces. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing seeing the detective try to use the woman; maybe it would provide John with the wake-up call he needed.

The woman turned around, slightly startled at Sherlock's sudden appearance inches away from her face, but she didn't flinch or smile flirtatiously back.

"Nice try." She said, smirking as she looked back down at the clipboard in her right hand.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock innocently asked.

"I'm a lesbian."

John couldn't restrain a chuckle; Sherlock, for all of his great deducing skills, didn't realize that his flirtation would be powerless. She looked at John, her eyes twinkling in amusement as Sherlock's mouth opened slightly.

"I'm sorry for my friend here," John stepped forward, brushing past the frozen detective and standing next to the woman. "He flirts with the girl that works in the morgue we visit on occasion and he assumes that since his _limited_ charm-" John felt Sherlock's gaze sharpen as it bored into the back of his head, but the doctor ignored him "- works on her, it would work on the rest of the female population."

"It's alright; most people don't know it either." She grinned at Sherlock and John, obviously basking in the detective's stupor.

"But I shouldn't have missed that." Sherlock muttered.

"People can be homosexual and act the same way everyone else does. It isn't necessarily obvious." She shrugged.

John stood still for a moment, his gaze frozen on Sherlock as the detective turned slowly away from her and focused on the bewildered doctor. A small smile quirked at Sherlock's lips before he turned his attention back to the woman.

"Indeed."

"Follow me." She replied, smirking as she sashayed to the elevator and motioned for them to follow. "We keep corpses related to crimes in the basement," she explained.

They followed her as she zigzagged throughout the barren halls until she approached a room with the doors shut.

"Due to the measures taken to kill these girls and the varying lengths of time they have been dead, the room reeks. Two of the five corpses had to be removed as they were from two months ago and they were decomposing. Another girl was murdered in the middle of last month, so I wouldn't get really close to her, and the last two were murdered within the past week." With this, she grabbed a small covering for her nose from a pocket in her scrubs and opened the door.

John, having been an army doctor in Afghanistan, definitely smelled worse, though the stench brought back unpleasant memories and a pang to his stomach. Despite Sherlock's desensitization to corpses, he winced almost imperceptibly upon the first wave of the odor, but his face was set in rigid apathy before thirty seconds passed.

They walked in, John stepping in front of Sherlock should his revulsion still be visible, and looked at the naked corpses.

The three girls all were lying in the same position, on their backs, arms by their sides, and heads off to the side of the table, diagonal from their necks. The heads all sported medium-length chestnut brown hair, pale skin, full lips, and big brown eyes. The bodies were all well-proportioned, medium height, and equally pale.

They all bore the same bright blue nail polish on their fingernails and toenails. Even all of the cuts, bruises, and decapitations were exactly the same in these three corpses.

John looked for a few more moments at the horrific sight before leaving the room, gasping for air, not out of a need for freshness (though that was much appreciated) but out of a desire to flee. It felt like a horrible violation of privacy to analyze the bodies of young teenage girls stripped and mutilated for reasons unknown to the men.

For the time John was in the ghastly room, he hadn't heard anything come out of Sherlock's mouth.

He expected to have to wait a while for the detective and was wondering how long he would stay when Sherlock left the room. Not five minutes had passed since John's exodus, and he was confused. John had been sitting on the floor in an adjacent hallway, legs stretched out and back pressed against the refreshingly cold wall, when Sherlock flew across the corner before practically sprinting back to the hallway the doctor was recovering in.

Sherlock looked down at John, face unreadable, and the doctor was about to get up off of the ground when the detective plopped next to John's right side, a small sigh escaping his lips.

John relaxed back into the wall (if such a thing was possible), and he felt Sherlock do the same. Their shoulders were pressed together, though not uncomfortably, and John's hands were as still as stone though his heart was beating impossibly fast.

He took a shaky breath, loathing the weakness that had surely been detected by Sherlock. John couldn't bring himself to say a word, much less get up and leave, so he wallowed in a dangerous concoction of embarrassment and horror.

A hand grasped John's, weaving their fingers with his and squeezing slightly before relaxing the grip.

If it hadn't been for the pale long fingers starkly contrasting against his tan and medium-length fingers, he wouldn't have believed that Sherlock was holding his hand; if it hadn't been for the comfortable grip and slight squeeze, he wouldn't have believed it was real.

In that moment, John didn't care that Sherlock was experimenting. He didn't care that this whole thing would most likely just be analyzed by the detective for the sole purpose of understanding humanity.

John allowed himself to comfort and to be comforted.

It was only after his own heartbeat slowed slightly that John realized Sherlock's was racing and his hand was shaking in the doctor's still grip. John began rubbing his thumb on the top of Sherlock's hand absentmindedly.

Sherlock leaned his head on John's shoulder, his breath warm on the doctor's neck. John was surprised to find that it wasn't just Sherlock's hand that shook slightly; rather, his whole body quivered.

It was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock this affected by a murder, and it touched him.

Damning the possible consequences, John shifted, separating himself from Sherlock for a second before wrapping his right arm around the detective's shoulder, pulling him close. John held his breath, fearful that Sherlock would pull away, repulsed, but the detective sunk further into the army doctor without hesitation.

Sherlock's right hand stretched across John's body and grasped his hand once more. John resumed stroking his thumb on Sherlock's smooth skin.

Their breaths eventually evened and their hearts stilled, falling into perfect sync, but neither of the men made any move to get up off of the ground. John was loath to remove himself from Sherlock's side, and the detective seemed to feel the same, so John stayed.

It wasn't until a soft snore rumbled from his side that John realized Sherlock had fallen asleep in his arms.

* * *

**Again, thank you for reading! **

**Thank you hinatahime666 for giving me the snuggling idea and reading my ideas about incorporating it! It didn't turn out at all like I thought it would, but thank you nonetheless for giving me the idea to have them snuggle. :) **


	9. Chapter 9

**John's POV! Thank you for the numerous reviews, follows, and favorites! I had no idea that it would get this much attention, and I am honored that you take the time to read my story! **

**I am doing my best to keep them in character, but if I write something that seems out of character, please do not hesitate to let me know. **

**Again, thank you for reading! **

**Enjoy! :) **

* * *

John sat in the otherwise empty hallway, holding Sherlock close.

It vaguely occurred to him that this action, however pleasant, crossed numerous lines. It wouldn't have been big deal if it was just his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, but the men were curled around each other as though it was imperative to be as close as modestly possible.

Sherlock's arm wove around John's back and his hand cupped John's side. John's arm was draped protectively around Sherlock's shoulders and his hand cupped Sherlock's upper arm. Their free hands were woven together.

Sherlock's head rested on John's shoulder, snoring lightly. A bemused smile emerged on the doctor's face.

It was then that he realized the full extent of his feelings for the eccentric detective.

Sherlock Holmes was the sort of person one could only feel extreme emotion towards; one either hated or loved him. There wasn't a half-way with the eccentric detective.

Over time, perhaps, one could go from one end of the spectrum to the other, but that wasn't ever the case for John.

John never swayed from adoration; he couldn't bring himself to hate the man, despite his eccentric living style and outlandish experiments. That didn't mean he never got irritated with Sherlock, he probably spent far too much time fuming and screaming over the detective's scathing remarks or careless actions, but John always forgave him and he always stayed.

However, he hadn't ever truly realized the depth of his love for Sherlock until now. Holding the detective in an attempt to comfort him and resulting in the man falling asleep in his arms sent John's emotions into a frenzy. Despite being in the middle of a morgue, John felt like there was no other place in the world that he belonged at that moment.

Protectiveness, serenity, and love were vying for his attention as John ached to run his fingers through the detective's curly raven-black hair. He was barely able to restrain himself until he realized that if he were to begin playing with Sherlock's hair, it could wake the detective up, and that was the last thing the doctor wanted to do.

His mind went from frantic chaos to a still emptiness in seconds; the only thing John's ears and mind registered was the oddly soothing mix of the low ticking of the clock above them and the detective's light snoring.

Even though John was awake, his heartbeat and breathing pattern was still in perfect sync with Sherlock's.

It was the sort of moment John wished never ended.

Unfortunately, the detective only slept for a hour and a half.

Sherlock's breath hitched, breaking the doctor's trance, though the detective didn't pull away from John. John certainly wasn't about to remove himself from the detective, but he loosened his grip should Sherlock want to get up.

John's mind morphed once again within a split second, though this time it went into a worried frenzy.

Now that Sherlock had been comforted, was he going to revert back to icy apathy? Was he going to slink further from John? Did John's impulsive actions repulse Sherlock?

John wasn't sure how long they sat there, but, with each passing second, he felt his mind slip further and further into insanity.

Was Sherlock staying there out of obligation or something more? Had John ruined their friendship for good?

"John..."

In that simple statement, in that simple word, John heard the gratitude Sherlock was trying desperately to convey. Shocked yet touched, John squeezed Sherlock's hand, also at a loss for words. The doctor looked at the clock, two and a half hours had passed, and his eyes returned to Sherlock.

He rose, removing his arm from Sherlock's shoulder, and the detective removed his arm from John's back, though their hands were still clasped. They stood, staring at the other for another moment, before walking towards the lift.

Once the doors closed, Sherlock's thumb stroked John's hand once before the detective severed the contact.

Suppressing a sigh, John tucked his hands into his pockets, though not before flexing the one Sherlock's had entwined with.

* * *

The moment they walked passed the inn's front desk, the blonde woman (did she ever leave?) burst into giggles.

It was then that John realized how incriminating their disheveled appearance appeared. His cheeks were on fire as Sherlock chose that moment to walk up to a rather professional looking woman. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties and, despite having a pleasant enough face, her smile lacked warmth as she saw the detective saunter to her.

John trailed behind, though he was able to read her name tag.

_Madison Bender _

_Inn Manager _

He tried to listen to their conversation but, despite the doctor's closeness, he was unable to process the words exchanged.

Much to his irritation, the only thing John's mind seemed capable of doing was focusing on the sudden chill John's back and arms were suffering from due to the absence of Sherlock's touch.

It seemed like an eternity later when Sherlock abruptly ended the conversation and turned, as if waiting for John to leave with him. The doctor complied. He walked to Madison, ended the conversation with much more politeness than the detective, and followed Sherlock up to their room.

He pushed aside the unease that stemmed from the strange smile Madison flashed at the doctor as he left the lobby.

* * *

When they reached their room, John noticed that the door was slightly opened. Pushing in front of Sherlock and reaching for his gun, John slowly entered. He was embarrassed when he saw that no one had broken into their room; rather, a cleaning lady had entered merely to do her job.

As he walked in to apologize for his rude entrance, the doctor read her nametag. Bianca Hentsworth. John suddenly remembered that this was the woman George told them about; Bianca was the one most people blamed for the murders. Even though George had told them that he was certain she hadn't killed the girls, John didn't fully relax or let go of his gun.

She remained silent after politely reassuring John that he wasn't in the wrong; rather, she was because she had been a few minutes late to clean their room. Bianca hesitantly smiled as she removed her cleaning supplies from the freshly tidied room, though John noticed her breathing was rapid and irregular.

He felt bad for stunning her so terribly; at the same time, John was thankful he sprung into action with ease.

Sherlock merely watched the woman bustle about in their room before exiting. He perched on the edge of the bed silently, his eyes never leaving the plump lady until the door closed and silence submerged them once more.

John was reaching to take off his jacket when he heard a soft yawn. The detective blinked and stretched, and John felt an unexpected wave of affection.

"You need to sleep." John said, gently grabbing Sherlock's arms and leading him to the bed.

"I don't need sleep. Sleeping slows me down." Sherlock halfheartedly muttered.

"You haven't slept for days Sherlock; you need it."

John lifted up the covers and led Sherlock into the comfortable bed. Once Sherlock was under the blankets, John tucked him in.

When he was finished, his eyes locked with the detective's. Suddenly afraid that he would do something he would regret, John backed away.

"Where are you going?" The detective inquired, suddenly wide awake.

"Out. I'll be back soon," John flashed Sherlock what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he grabbed a room key and walked to the door. "Sleep; I'll be back soon," He reiterated.

John left their floor and exited the lobby in a daze. He wasn't sure where to go, but, since it was a small town, he decided to aimlessly stroll through the streets. It was freezing, and he was thankful he kept his jacket.

His mind was in a blissful fog, and his hands stopped twitching. His heartbeat no longer hammered in his head; John was finally fully relaxed.

He wasn't sure why he wanted to be this calm in the first place. It was nice to have his wits about him, but, now that they returned, his mind calmly yet persistently reminded him that his affection for Sherlock would be impossible to conceal for long now that he had come to grips with its existence. For all he knew, Sherlock could already be aware of John's emotions.

When he came to that realization, John's heart didn't skip a beat and his gait didn't change. He wasn't altogether comfortable with that idea, but he had grown so accustomed to Sherlock knowing practically everything about himself that John wasn't overwhelmed with fear.

He walked up and down the few blocks, his mind returning to complete silence after he pondered the chances of Sherlock being or remaining ignorant of his emotions, before John decided to return to the inn. Sherlock would (hopefully) be asleep, and John could entertain himself with the mystery novel he started last night.

John reached the parking lot of the inn, and looked up at the numerous windows. Smiling softly, he began walking up to the entrance when someone grabbed his shoulder.

"Hey J-"

Whirling around, John reached once again for his gun. He lowered his arm when he realized that it was only George.

"Sorry," He tucked his gun away. "You startled me."

"It's okay; I should've known better than to startle an army man."

John smiled tersely as an awkward silence enveloped them. The doctor got the distinct feeling that someone was watching him, and he turned away from George to look back up at the inn's windows.

"Sorry, am I keeping you?" George sincerely queried.

"No; no not at all. Sherlock should be up in the room, sleeping."

"I'm sorry that I flirted with you back at the flat; I hadn't realized that you two were in a relationship."

"It's okay, but we really aren't in a relationship. Sherlock is always like that around people that flirt with me." John winced, suddenly aware of how that sounded. "I just mean that he treats my girlfriends horribly because he wants my undivided attention."

"I understand," George replied, smiling softly. "Do you want there to be more between you two?"

"What did you come to the inn for? Were you looking for us?" John inquired, abruptly changing the topic. He didn't want to discuss that with anyone, especially George.

"I was coming here to see if you arrived and, yes, to fully inform you of the situation. Though, I was planning to talk to you guys about that tomorrow."

"Well you could-" A flicker of movement out of the corner of John's eyes captured his attention. He turned back to the inn, staring at a window in the second floor; he thought he had seen a curtain open. As he began looking at each window, he saw another curtain flicker. This time, since John was looking for movement, he was able not only to glimpse the curtain close abruptly but to see a familiar mop of curly black hair flee from the window. Sherlock. "Actually, I best be going. Tomorrow sounds lovely."

He walked away from George in an uncharacteristically rude manner. John heard George reply, but he wasn't paying attention to the bewildered man.

His mind, like always, was focused on Sherlock Holmes, the man whose timing could be as horrible as his deductions were amazing.


	10. Chapter 10

**So, thanks to an amazing snow storm, my day is now completely free to write, read and watch Netflix, so I decided to quickly type this up. **

**A thank you is needed for RainyDays-and-DayDreams, hinatahime666, EJBRUSH1952, ELLYNARA3, colerfulldarkness666, Lilmuffin2017, BunBunBabe, Septembers Oblivion, GemmaG, 20 minutes, Sheepdog20, texmex007, and AngellaCrickett for their amazing reviews and to everyone who favorites, follows, and even reads this story. **

**Sherlock's POV! **

* * *

As soon as John began tucking him in, Sherlock's eyes drooped and his body relaxed. It was quite frightening for his body to act of its own accord, despite his fervent attempts to regain control. Sherlock had always been a master of control, but, with a simple gesture from John, his resolve evaporated. It took every ounce of his remaining self control to not lean into the doctor's loving actions.

He caught the strange purr that had rumbled through his body seconds before it was about to leave his lips.

It was right then that John finished, and their eyes locked. Sherlock fought for his normally effortless apathetic expression as he tried desperately to hide his pleasure.

"Out. I'll be back soon," John smiled, and Sherlock's gut wrenched. "Sleep; I'll be back soon."

Sherlock didn't trust his voice to not betray him, so he didn't make the unnecessary remark reminding John of how repetitiveness annoyed him.

He just watched, no longer sleepy, as the doctor fled the room.

Had he done something wrong?

Sherlock's mind flew into overdrive, analyzing every second of interaction since his realization of his feelings, but he didn't find anything incriminating. However, Sherlock wasn't accustomed to social interaction, so he was unable to tell if he had done anything unusually horrifying.

He didn't even bother trying to go back to sleep; his mind was fully alert, still desperately analyzing the situation instead of the current case. It was another first for Sherlock to have his mind focused on social behavior (for emotional purposes) rather than the murder(s) at hand.

His whole body craved John's warmth; his mind kept going back to the morgue. It was the first time since his mother was alive that someone had held him, and Sherlock had forgotten how, despite his hatred of sentiment, the gesture made him feel loved and protected.

Sherlock shook his head. What was he doing? He wasn't at the inn to think about John; he was there to solve a case. He shoved his thoughts and reminisces into the wing in the mind palace specifically for the ex-military doctor.

The corpses all shared basic features, though they did posses minor distinctions, and they were all murdered the same way, which pointed towards sentiment. Something about a woman looking like the dead girls made the serial killer murder them in an overly elaborate manner.

_Why did everything have to trace back to sentiment?_

Bianca Hentsworth clearly wasn't the killer; she didn't posses the mind or description. She was just an inn worker, though George never mentioned that Bianca was their mother figure. It was obvious; she recognized Sherlock from the newspapers George had undoubtedly shown her and muttered, in French and too low for John to hear, that George really shouldn't have gone through the trouble. Her tone alone indicated maternal attachment, as did George's when he informed Sherlock and John of her innocence.

_Why did George have to be right? _

It was rather odd that all of the bodies were found right by the inn, which would indicate that the murders all had something to do with the building.

But what did the inn have anything to do with it? Sentiment, again, was most likely the reason. But what sort of sentiment made it necessary to murder all of those women and deposit their corpses by and in the inn?

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. _

Sherlock punched his pillow, annoyed and frustrated. Why did John penetrate his every thought? Why was his mind completely centered on this average man? No, John was nothing if not extraordinary. A mystery wrapped in an enigma squeezed into hideous jumpers that were just a little bit too adorable.

Why wasn't it enough for his mind to admit that he possessed some level of affection towards John?

He had never been a man who liked to focus on defeat for illogical reasons, yet, no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he couldn't stop thinking about John. Blocking the army doctor out of his thoughts was like trying to understand emotion itself.

Groaning in annoyance, he jumped out of the bed and began pacing.

Although it was better than lying in bed, sulking, Sherlock did not achieve relief. His head still buzzed with thoughts of John. His stomach felt fluttery and odd and, for a moment, he diagnosed it as some sort of virus. It was a preposterous assumption as Sherlock rarely got sick, but proclaiming himself to be ill was easier to understand and cope with than the alternative.

He stalked to the window and opened the curtain slightly. He saw John walking towards the inn, almost to the front door, when someone in the darkness grabbed the doctor's shoulder. Sherlock's body tensed, ready to flee the room and run to John, but the figure stepped into view.

George.

Sherlock cringed, his stomach going from awkward fluttering to a horrible clenching. Despite his slight amusement at John almost injuring George, Sherlock couldn't stand the way George smiled at the doctor; he couldn't stand that John was outside talking to George when he should be inside, with the detective.

Did he misinterpret John's gesture at the morgue?

He tore himself away from the window, aghast. A wave of helplessness stole his breath as he slumped into the desk chair and stared at the wall, willing himself to think about something, _anything_, other than John.

Sherlock's efforts were interrupted when he heard the sound of a key being inserted into their door.

Was it possible that John had turned down George for Sherlock?

John walked into the room and his eyes flew to the detective.

"Why aren't you asleep?"

"Bored." _I couldn't sleep because you weren't here. _

John looked exasperated, and Sherlock's heart plummeted. Had John only returned to tuck Sherlock in so he could leave again? Did John want to be with George alone?

Sherlock desperately needed answers. John was still breathing heavily, indicating a hurried trip to their room. His pupils were blown wide, so much so that it appeared as though the doctor's eyes were completely black. He also-

"Don't do that to me. Don't you dare deduce me." John hissed before removing his jacket.

The detective looked away, though he didn't make any attempt to silence his thoughts. When John put his mind to something, whether in real life or in Sherlock's mind palace, there wasn't anything that could stop him.

The only thing Sherlock could deduce from that was John clearly desired secrecy, and that was hardly worthy of being considered a deduction.

"You need sleep Sherlock." The doctor's voice was considerably fonder as he pointed to the bed. Sherlock complied, crawling into the cold sheets. John didn't tuck him in this time; he merely smiled at the detective before moving to the couch.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock inquired, sitting up.

"I'm going to go to sleep." John walked back over to Sherlock and grabbed the extra pillow. Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed John's wrist.

"Stay. Please." The detective reprimanded himself, both for the emotion that filled the question/demand and for even allowing himself to utter something so personal.

John's lips lifted in a slight smile. He gently released his wrist from the detective's hand and crawled into the bed. Sherlock buried himself under the covers once again as John's body tensed before relaxing. The doctor moved slightly so that he wasn't balancing precariously over the edge of the bed yet he wasn't snuggling beside the detective. Sherlock matched John's position, pleasure overwhelming the detective upon feeling John's tension become extinct as he fell asleep.

"Goodnight Sherlock." John murmured before completely succumbing to sleep.

"Goodnight John."

When Sherlock was sure that moving slightly wouldn't wake John, the detective carefully turned on his side, facing the sleeping doctor.

John's face radiated innocence and tranquility as he slipped further and further into his subconscious.

Sherlock stared at John for hours, memorizing every detail of him. He longed to run his hands along the contours of John's face, but he was terrified that such an action would wake the doctor and the spell would be broken.

When the detective finally looked at the clock (John had turned in his sleep, his back facing Sherlock), three hours had passed, John began to whimper. It was quiet at first, but as the seconds morphed into minutes, the whimpers were accompanied by heavy breathing. Sherlock tried to wake John up, but nothing worked. The detective called him, pinched him, and was considering dumping water on the doctor when he had a better idea.

Impulsively, the detective wrapped himself around John. It vaguely occurred to him that he was spooning the doctor, something only lovers did, but Sherlock didn't care.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock wanted to comfort someone so much that he put their feelings above his revulsion to physical contact.

He was surprised, yet again, when holding John wasn't uncomfortable; rather, Sherlock was comforted by the feeling of John pressed against him. It brought serenity and happiness, so much so that after John calmed down, Sherlock kept himself wrapped around the doctor.

Distracted by thoughts surrounding the nightmare the doctor experienced, Sherlock almost missed John's arm snaking over his and grabbing his hand.

Sherlock tensed, afraid that John had awoken, but the doctor's breathing pattern indicated sleep.

The detective relaxed and, lulled by the sound of John breathing and the feel of his heartbeat, fell asleep.

* * *

When the detective awoke, they were still pressed together, although John was obviously awake.

They stayed in their same positions for a half hour, neither of them moving, though Sherlock was sure John knew he wasn't sleeping anymore.

"George wanted to talk to us sometime today; he said he could come whenever we needed him to." John informed Sherlock, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Do you want to text him or should I?"

"I don't have his number; he gave it to you back at Baker Street."

A burst of pleasure shot through Sherlock. "When should I suggest we meet?"

"Lunchtime?"

"Sounds fine."

Sherlock relaxed his grip on John, and the doctor let go of his arm. They both got out of bed, and they got ready for the day before heading downstairs for breakfast.

They sat down at the table and John ordered breakfast, frowning slightly when Sherlock abstained though he didn't comment. Afterwards, it was then that Sherlock noticed how relaxed John was. When Sherlock first thought of spooning John that night, he was afraid that, should it continue into the morning, things would be awkward, but, like most of his assumptions involving John, the detective was wrong.

The fact that they cuddled for a majority of the night was not ignored, but there wasn't any awkwardness Sherlock anticipated. There was, like with everything Sherlock did with John, a silent understanding. However, it was the first time that Sherlock wasn't sure what that understanding encompassed.

John took his time eating, more so than normal, and Sherlock felt a grin stretch across his face.

"When are you going to text George?" John inquired, once again breaking their silence.

"Now, if you would like."

John grunted his affirmation.

_When would you like to meet and provide more information about the murders? SH _

_One? There is a decent restaurant in town, I could meet you guys at the inn and we could discuss it there. _

_Alright SH _

"He said that he would meet us here and we could go to a restaurant at one."

"That sounds good. Wouldn't it be a bit bad to discuss murder in public?"

"The town has been buzzing with gossip about it. Look around John, they have nothing else to talk about. Everything that he will say has probably been heard by everyone here. The only problem is the likelihood of people interrupting our conversation."

John returned to eating, and Sherlock snuck bites of food here and there.

And, like with most of the detective's actions, John rewarded him with an amused smile.

* * *

The men sat in the lobby, the blonde woman nowhere in sight.

As one o'clock rolled around, George entered and walked up to the men.

"Hey! How does Italian sound?"

"Adequate."

"Perfect." John said, elbowing Sherlock.

"We have Italian all the time." Sherlock whined.

"Yes, but we haven't had any here."

"Fine."

George was silent, watching their argument with an amused but jealous gleam in his eyes that did not go unnoticed by either of the men. John cleared his throat awkwardly, and they followed George out of the inn and down the road. Not five minutes later, the trio sat in a vinyl booth, a candle nowhere in sight, much to Sherlock's disappointment.

"The murders started a couple of months ago, and, as I'm sure you have noticed, all of the corpses are females with similar if not exact features. The names, in order, of the women murdered are: Jasmine Smith, Jeanette Williams, Clarissa Fable, Harriet Chase, and Annabelle Arnold."

"Does this include the two women murdered in London?" Sherlock inquired, with considerably less hostility than when they first met, although his distaste for George was still apparent.

"No, these are the five women slaughtered here." George replied. "They all are in the same age range: 20-30 year old women. Although I knew all five of them, they weren't close friends with each other. They were sweet girls, brilliant too. Annabelle was my best friend and Harriet was my sister. The three of us were really close."

"Do you have an idea of who the murderer is?" John sympathetically asked.

"I think it's Madison Bender-" upon hearing the name, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "-and not because she is Bianca's boss. I'm not that petty. I think it is Madison because she just doesn't seem... right, you know? I don't see her around much around town, and in such a small community, you see each other pretty often. I've never been to her house and, after I asked around, nobody else has ever been in her home."

"Just because Ms. Bender doesn't let people into her home doesn't mean she has something ominous to hide. It could be a self-esteem issue, or-"

"You've met her, haven't you Mr. Holmes?" George interrupted the detective, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Yes."

"And you still think that it could be a self-esteem issue?"

"People often strive to appear self-confident to hide their self-loathing or other issues they deem unworthy of public viewing. You don't know why she doesn't let anyone into her home; thus, you cannot assume anything about the inside OR how she sees herself." Sherlock fired back.

"Given her social standing in the community, which, is pretty high, it is unusual that she wouldn't ever let anyone into her modest, two-story home. She has one of the nicest houses in the whole town!"

"Why do you think she would kill all of these women?" John inquired, obviously trying to steer the conversation into smoother waters.

"Something must've happened between one of them, which would trigger the murder of women looking similar to the one that offended her. It could be any of them, though, because you could argue that she could've killed her after killing a few women that looked like her to stimulate fear."

"Did any of them have a close relationship with Madison?" John leaned forward slightly and George copied his movement.

"Jasmine was good friends with her, but they did have a falling out a few weeks before her death."

"So why don't Sherlock and I learn more about the two women and their relationship?"

"I think it sounds good; is there anything I can do to assist you?"

"We do not require assistance for such a task." Sherlock coldly interrupted. He wouldn't, _couldn't_, have John spend more time with George.

"Is there anything else you could think of to tell us?" John asked, shooting Sherlock an exasperated glare.

"Well, Jasmine's boyfriend, Nick Sands, might be able to provide more information about Jasmine."

"Thank you for the information." John smiled at George, and Sherlock's gut wrenched.

"Thank you for assisting us with the case." George replied, smiling in return, though this time he included Sherlock.

A silence stretched between the three for a few minutes, before John got up to go to the loo.

"I wasn't trying to flirt with him just now, or last night."

"I didn't say you were."

"Perhaps not, but you clearly don't like it when people flirt with him, and I saw you in the window last night." He noticed Sherlock's silence, and sighed. "Look, it's not wrong to love John. I never meant to sabotage anything; I honestly didn't know either of you cared about each other like that. If I had known-"

"Either of us cared about each other?" Sherlock's question flew from his lips before he could restrain himself.

"It's quite obvious that you two love each other."

"Love?" _Sentiment__ is a chemical defect found in the loosing side, but who said winning was always good? Who said losing could be horrible even when you lose with amazing people? _

"Can you really not see that he feels the same? It's quite obvious actually-"

"What's quite obvious?" John interrupted, sliding into the booth.

"That Madison Bender is the murderer," Sherlock smoothly lied. "He's still convinced that she's the only possible person."

"She might be; she might not be, but it's a lead. Would it really be horrible if George was right?"

_Would it really be horrible if George was right? _

_Y__es, because, even if I was the sort of person someone could love, I am not good enough for you. I'm too insensitive and freakish; whereas John is the quintessence of loyalty and courage. _

Annoyed by John's innocent question, Sherlock pushed past the doctor and out of the booth. He fled the restaurant almost immediately.

As he slid out of the seat, Sherlock saw George flash him a knowing smirk. Sherlock could hear John calling his name and following him out of the restaurant to look for the detective.

Sherlock slid into the library two buildings down from the restaurant and immediately went to the back corner.

Plopping on the floor, Sherlock examined the books in front of him before pulling out a blue book.

He huffed, examining the title before opening it and reading.

If the Cambridge Studies in Philosophy book _Analyzing Love _didn't shed light on the present situation, then nothing could.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I'll try to write the next chapter this weekend, but, if that doesn't work out, see you next weekend! :) **


	11. Chapter 11

**Soooo the wonderful snow has given me another free day, and I decided to write another chapter. **

**All of the reviews, favorites, follows, and views/visitors are amazing! Thank you so much! **

**Back to John! :D**

* * *

Out of the blue, Sherlock burst from the booth and ran out of the restaurant.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

John followed the enigmatic detective out of the building, but Sherlock disappeared immediately. Biting back a curse, John went back into the restaurant and sank into the booth. George just stared at John dispassionately as he fiddled with a sugar packet.

"Care to explain what that was about?" The doctor wasn't stupid; he had known Sherlock was lying when he said that George had continued defending Bianca's innocence (Sherlock had gone completely still, avoided John's gaze, and his cheeks had a faint flush).

"I don't know what got into him; perhaps it was something you said."

"I didn't say anything that would make him flee as though the table was on fire!"

"Your words have more of an effect on him than you know, John."

"He never listens to me!"

George snickered and leaned back in his seat. The two were silent as John went through the conversation.

_She might be; she might not be, but it's a lead. Would it really be horrible if George was right?_

John frowned; Sherlock must've been upset about him making the suggestion that George was right. It was irritating that Sherlock couldn't admit that someone other than himself was right; especially George. Although it was frustrating that Sherlock treated people that appeared interested in John worse than Anderson, the doctor couldn't help but feel a little flattered. After all, it wasn't often that a self-proclaimed sociopathic detective took interest in the likes of ordinary folk, much less seek their company.

His face flushed as he remembered the surreal feeling of waking up in Sherlock's arms.

The doctor shook his head; it wasn't the time or the place to contemplate his worth to the detective.

With an uncharacteristically scant amount of politeness, John fled the booth and the restaurant.

It wasn't like Sherlock would leave the small town, so John strolled along the streets and popped into random shops along the sidewalks. If the detective wanted solitude, the doctor wouldn't disturb him. John did, however, want to get a feel for the town he was temporarily residing in.

He had already entered three different little stores before he glimpsed Bianca weaving through isles in a clothes shop with three other women, tittering as they praised or insulted various shirts and skirts. She didn't appear to be someone the town was avoiding; although she did receive suspicious glances as John watched Bianca purchase something and leave, still with her friends, and enter the bustling (considering the small population) streets. Some people glared at her, but most of those who did look at Bianca with something decidedly unfriendly merely sneered at her before returning their attention to things they deemed more important.

It was then that John realized that George's frantic demeanor as he told the pair of how everyone in the town persecuted Bianca because they thought she was the murderer, even though he knew she wasn't, was a façade (although Sherlock's sudden touchiness at the flat had distracted John, the doctor had heard George's more respectful and detailed explanation for his desire for them to investigate). Despite the obvious dislike of Bianca, it was nowhere as serious as George made it seem.

John sighed and turned around, passing by a bookstore. It was the most likely place for Sherlock to have fled...

But it wouldn't do any good to barge in on the detective when he made it quite clear that he desired privacy. John knew that he hated it when Sherlock interrupted his solitude.

He decided to head back to the hotel, as that was the only place, other than the bookstore, the doctor had not checked.

As John walked into the entrance, George stood from a chair and went to the doctor.

"Have you found him yet?" John began walking to the lift, and George followed.

"Nope. But I saw Bianca."

"Oh?"

"Why did you lie?"

"What do you mean?"

"You lied about the severity of the accusations against Bianca."

"How else was I going to persuade Sherlock to come?"

"The murders are motivating on their own! You've seen the corpses; you know it is an unusual case. Sentiment has no affect on Sherlock." The lift dinged and the doors opened. John all but marched in, followed closely by George.

"But it has an affect on you."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"It has everything to do with you!"

"No it does not! It has to do with the work and the work alone. I am just his friend and caretaker."

"Your opinion matters to him! He wasn't about to come here for my sake! Sherlock would, however, come if the case appealed to you."

"It didn't... I don't think..." John sighed and rubbed his forehead before entering their room. George, of course, continued to follow the flabbergasted doctor.

"Look, I came to Sherlock Holmes because I know that he can solve this. I came with the hope that I could persuade him to come all the way to a small town, and I did what I thought was necessary." John looked at George, revelation dawning. He may not have been Sherlock Holmes, but John wasn't the idiot the detective believed. There was a reason George was always talking about John and Sherlock's relationship, and it wasn't because he was interested in matchmaking.

"I get that. What I _don't _get is the added sentiment. We both know that, while Sherlock proclaims to lack feelings, he does care about people, but he wouldn't be any more motivated by you seeking help to clear someone's name."

"I-"

"However," John plowed on, ignoring George. "Bianca doesn't seem to suffer from the sort of verbal abuse you claimed. It looks as though you lied about her, yet you weren't acting. The only time you _were _acting was when you flirted with me."

"How-"

"Quite obvious really," Dear Lord, how much had Sherlock rubbed off on him? "The slight grimace that appeared when you began flirting with me, the awkwardness that accompanied your movements, and then there's your eyes."

"My... Eyes?"

"Sherlock's always told me that he understood love and attraction and, while that's false in the emotional realm, he wasn't incorrect about the physical effects, such as dilated pupils and rapid heartbeat. Checking your pulse now wouldn't be very smart as your heart is racing, though not because of attraction. Your pupils, however, have never dilated around me nor Sherlock. In other words, you were never interested in me. Now, while that might seem inconsequential, it showed me that your act wasn't real when _I _was involved. Your pupils _did _dilate when we discussed Madison Bender earlier." John towered over George as the ginger all but collapsed in the chair.

There was silence for a little while as George's face turned whiter and whiter and whiter as John stood still.

"I-"

The door burst open and Sherlock flew into the room. John didn't have to ask to know that the detective had, once again, overheard his conversation.

This time, John didn't mind that Sherlock was eavesdropping.

It was strange though, because the tables were reversed yet again. It was a much more serious situation, yet Sherlock stared at John in wonder and pride before hardening his gaze and returning his eyes to George.

The moment of surprise did not go unutilized by George; the split second in which Sherlock and John locked eyes was when George sprung from the chair and fled the room.

There was a slight pause before John snapped into action. Grabbing his gun from his jacket, he held it as he sprinted out of the room, Sherlock on his heels.

Dashing out of the inn's lobby, they stopped at the sidewalk. George had been right in front of them seconds ago, yet there was nothing to show of it.

"You go left Sherlock; I'll go right."

"John-"

"Sherlock, we can talk later. We need to find George before something bad happens."

The detective nodded before pulling John into a quick hug before turning around and running down the street. John's body tingled from the contact and he reveled in the feeling for a second before leaving to look for George.

As he ran and looked along the streets and shops, John didn't see any sign of George. He groaned, his legs shook as he gasped for air. For a moment, he forgot about Sherlock as he took in much needed air.

John began making his way towards the area he told Sherlock to check out, but there wasn't any sign of either George or the detective.

The shops and streets were all empty, save for the one little bookstore at the corner of the road that John hadn't visited. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards the small building and opened the glass door.

The smell of books coupled with a slight foreign scent sent John's thoughts to times where he would escape the eyes and ears of his peers to delve into worlds composed of words and characters more vivid and friendly than people he knew in real life.

He made his way through the massive bookshelves, delving deeper and deeper into the store. As he wove through the thousands of books, the smell of paper and ink faded until the once-foreign scent overpowered John's nose with its sharp metallic-ness.

As John reached the very back of the store, the smell was so strong he had to cover his nose with his hands. Bracing himself for the worst, John rounded the corner and stared at the blood-stained books.

No amount of preparation could've prepared John for the sight that met him.

It was worse than anything he could've imagined.

His eyes fell upon the mutilated man whose pale skin practically glowed against the blood running from the places where limbs were torn from their sockets.

* * *

**Until next time!**

**Thank you for reading! :) **


	12. Chapter 12

***jumps out of cake* I'M ALIVE!**

**But seriously, I am so sorry that I haven't updated in almost two weeks! I've been so busy with finals and because suddenly when you have stories to write life decides to throw you a curveball by giving you a social life. And then last night I decided to watch the last episode of Merlin during which I cried just as hard as I did when Sherlock fell and was thus not in a state to continue this story. **

**Thank you so much for those of you who review, follow, favorite, and read this story! Thank you for not giving up on it when I suddenly stopped updating! :)**

* * *

George's lifeless eyes stared up at John as the blood continued to seep everywhere. It was appalling to see the once vibrant young man cruelly slaughtered.

The doctor's thoughts didn't stay too long on the mutilated corpse in front of him; rather, he began to worry about Sherlock.

Would John round another corner and see the detective in a similar state?

Torn between fleeing to look for Sherlock or staying frozen to avoid finding another corpse, John stood for another moment before going past George.

"Sherlock?" John cried.

The doctor tore through the isles. He wouldn't allow himself to think of the condition his friend was in; if he thought of what he might find, John was afraid that he wouldn't be able to move or breathe or speak.

The bookstore was entirely empty and far too quiet.

Sherlock couldn't have... John would've _known _if the detective was dead. He would've felt it; he wouldn't be able to function.

John had to get out of there; he had to get out of the oppressive bookstore. Once out, he collapsed against a wall, allowing himself a moment of weakness as a single, strangled sob left his lips. It sounded grotesque and foreign to John's ringing ears.

"SHERLOCK!"

"John?" A faint whisper replied before a familiar body wrapped itself around the doctor, practically strangling him. It wasn't until John's body unfroze that his arms wound tightly around the detective, his head pressed to Sherlock's heartbeat. The detective's chin rested on the top of John's head as the doctor focused entirely on their racing hearts. The detective's heartbeat was thrumming in his ears, every beat loud and powerful.

Sherlock sighed and his arms loosened slightly, but John couldn't bring himself to leave, much less relax his own grip. There were a thousand questions buzzing in John's mind, though all the doctor was concerned about was making sure that the detective was alive and well.

Sherlock pulled away, a whimper involuntarily escaping John's lips. The detective's grim face softened in a slight smile as he grabbed the doctor's hand and held the tan fingers on Sherlock's wrist where John could feel his still-racing pulse.

John smiled back, his eyes unable to look away from the detective's for a few moments before John backed away and circled the detective, looking for any signs of injury. When he didn't find any, John sat against the wall in a desperate attempt to hide his quivering legs (though the detective probably noticed it anyway) and looked up at Sherlock, slightly surprised to find that the detective was moving to sit beside him.

"What happened?"

"I was chasing George down this street and I lost him for twenty minutes. I looked everywhere but he was completely gone. He had dashed into the bookstore once before, but I had followed him and I saw him leave. I was about to look for Bianca when I heard George scream. I ran into the bookstore through the back door and found him dead. I was going to further examine him but I saw someone leave out of the corner of my eye and I followed them. They looked like they were heading to the inn but I heard you scream so I came.." Sherlock trailed off, as though suddenly becoming aware of his uncharacteristic rambling.

John sighed and ran his hands through his hair absentmindedly.

Now that his mind was pacified, John began thinking of the corpse.

"Don't you think that it's strange that before this the victims were only decapitated and drained? George was just ripped apart."

"It's a warning. Someone wants us to leave."

"You don't think it's Madison?"

"Do you really think that Madison could cut apart a grown man in twenty minutes? It couldn't be her."

"But she's definitely involved."

Sherlock nodded, obviously finding John's ambiguous statement unworthy of a verbal response. The detective sat in silence for a few moments, the doctor beside him, before Sherlock stood and turned to him. Sherlock's eyes shone with curiosity.

"Yes we can go look at George's corpse." John rolled his eyes as Sherlock flashed an appreciative and excited, though perhaps a little sad, grin. As the doctor made a move to stand, the detective's hand shot out, suspended in the air between them. Without hesitation, John's hand grabbed the detective's. It was an unnecessary gesture, yet it filled John with hope.

No matter how important the experiment was, Sherlock wouldn't open himself up to rejection in such an obvious way.

Perhaps John was wrong after all.

* * *

It was with grim eyes and tight-lipped mouths that the two men observed George's corpse. Both of them were able to examine the gruesome sight without emotion blinding (or at least John wasn't completely overwhelmed by it) them, and the doctor was able to see what Sherlock had been talking about.

They were not alone for long, though. The police began flooding in, no doubt called by a townsperson that had heard the numerous screams and shouts. Sherlock had been leaning over George's head before their arrival, but, once the room was filled with people, the detective snapped upwards, glared at the crowd, and abruptly exited the store, John hot on his heels.

There were more people outside of the building than in, though John's eyes were drawn to a particularly chubby man with pale skin and brown hair. His neck fat was jiggling as he ordered people around. Sherlock stalked towards the man, no doubt aware of the his rank and John, not for the first or last time that night, sighed.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes!" John heard the man exuberantly exclaim as the doctor moved to stand closer, though still off to the side, of the detective. Sherlock moved backwards so that the two men were standing side by side, and the stranger's grin widened. "And John Watson! Lestrade called to tell me you would be here! It's an honor to meet you both! I love your blog!"

Sherlock stood in silence, no doubt finding this man unworthy to be verbally acknowledged, but just as John opened his mouth, the man began shooing his team away from the corpse. He didn't explain why, but the people stepped away. They looked puzzled though they obeyed the D.I. with less reluctance than John was expecting.

It was the first time that a D.I. hadn't been irritated by the detective's presence and it was both strange and pleasant. John smiled at the man and, though Sherlock remained icily silent, the doctor saw a small smile quirk at his lips for a split second.

"I'm Blake Hiddleston, by the way," The D.I. absentmindedly remarked as the men followed him into the now still bookstore.

Sherlock resumed examining the body in silence as John stared at the corpse and Blake stared at the detective, looking like a kid on Christmas Day that got the present they had begged for. It would've been amusing if the situation hadn't been so serious.

The detective stood after ten minutes and faced the two.

"Well?" Blake asked.

"It was a man who murdered George, most likely the sort that works out a lot. As I said earlier, John, this murder wasn't done with the same motives as the women's were. It was more than a way to silence George, if the man wanted his secret kept he could've just shot him; no, cutting off his limbs is a warning."

It wasn't something John didn't already know, but he muttered the customary fantastic anyways. He knew, although Blake didn't, that Sherlock's simple statement was all he gathered from the body that wasn't deemed worthless or something already known.

There was silence for a moment before Blake looked at the corpse and told Sherlock that he could do whatever it took to apprehend the psychopath.

* * *

John sighed as he opened his eyes and sat up.

No matter how hard he tried, the doctor couldn't sleep.

Sherlock sat at the desk, looking at various newspaper articles that discussed the deaths of the women.

John's mind was focused on the gruesome killings. There was something distinctly personal about this case. No one would be so meticulous about murdering women that looked almost identical in the same manner over and over again just because they were completely insane.

His thoughts revolved around all that he had witnessed during this particular case until John was positive that there was a great deal of sentiment involved.

He was exhausted, body and mind alike, however, John still could not force himself to get some rest. Whether it was the sun that shone far to brightly for his dark thoughts or it was the shock, John gave up. It was the first time that he could truly understand Sherlock not sleeping for days on end during a case.

As the doctor walked up to the detective's side, Sherlock pushed some of the articles towards John and clasped his hands together under his chin. Sherlock's eyes never left John's face as the doctor scanned the newspapers. He didn't find much information that they didn't know already.

When he got to the article of Jasmine's gruesome murder, John saw that the writer was none other than Nick Sands.

"That's-"

"Ms. Smith's boyfriend, yes."

"Are we going to visit him?"

"When you are ready." Sherlock replied, returning his attention to the articles that John knew had been read repeatedly. The doctor walked away and went to shower.

It was in said shower that John realized that the detective waited for _him _before continuing the investigation.

What was that supposed to mean? How was John supposed to interpret such an action? If it had been anyone else, John wouldn't have thought twice about it, but Sherlock hadn't even waited for the doctor when he was suffering from his psychosomatic limp, much less when he was fully able to run alongside Sherlock.

Was it really that much of a shock though?

Despite what people thought, John wasn't stupid or unobservant. He had denied that the detective and him weren't a couple, but, since the day they saw the first corpse of this case, John had begun to see that they really did act like one. Of course, during most of that time, he thought that Sherlock was experimenting, but the more John thought about it, the more he realized that that wasn't true.

They had been touching a bit more than normal, but other than that, there wasn't much of a change between them.

It was still John taking care of Sherlock; it was still Sherlock taking care of John.

The only difference was that John had come to grips with his love for the detective.

Their relationship wasn't that of ordinary best friends, nor was it something of normal couples. Whatever they shared, it went much deeper than anything John had ever experienced. Still, John didn't want to scare off Sherlock by telling the detective that he loved him.

John didn't want to drive away the best thing that ever happened to him.

The doctor quickly finished his shower and got dressed.

He walked out of the loo and to the side of his bed, pulling on his shoes.

"Ready?" The detective questioned, rising from the chair.

"Ready."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you for all of the reads, reviews, follows, and favorites! **

**Thank you Septembers Oblivion for helping me sort this chapter out!**

**Merry Christmas! :) **

**Crap is about to hit the fan!**

* * *

John followed Sherlock to the lobby, watching the detective as he barged up to the blonde and asked if she knew the whereabouts of Nick Sands. She chuckled and gave the detective an address, and the two were off again.

It wasn't long before they stopped in front of a modest one-story house. John walked in front of Sherlock and rang the doorbell, not wanting the man to open the door to a barrage of insensitive questions.

The door swung open, a tan blonde man standing somewhat wearily as he stared at the men.

"What do you want?" His question would've probably been a bit harsher if it hadn't been interrupted with a yawn.

"We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about Jasmine's murder." John replied.

"That was two months ago; you're a little late for an interview." Nick was fully awake, his eyes sharp and alert as he stared at the two men. "I am not in the mood to answer more questions."

"Please; we need to understand what is going on, and you're the only person with enough information." John pleaded.

"You think I know what's going on?" Nick laughed, a harsh bark that didn't mask his sorrow.

"You know more about Jasmine and Madison than anyone else." John continued, half-shocked that the detective hadn't forced himself into the conversation.

Nick stood for another minute in stony silence before he sighed and motioned for them to enter. He led them out of the foyer and into a nice living room. The furniture was simple yet elegant, and the side tables all had a picture or two of Nick with a beautiful woman John instantly identified as Jasmine.

"You haven't changed anything since she left." Sherlock remarked, his hawk-like gaze swept over the room and Nick, no doubt making a thousand dedutions in a matter of seconds.

"I couldn't. I tried, but..."

"Sentiment." John's eyes snapped to Sherlock; the detective hadn't said the word with the customary derision; rather, it was simply stated with an apathy that barely hid an emotion... resignation?

"That's one word for it." Nick sat in a chair across from the couch and motioned for them to sit. "What would you like to ask me?"

"What was her relationship with Madison Bender?" Sherlock inquired.

"They were best friends since childhood; they were practically inseparable. Jasmine was the only person I had ever seen make Madison really happy. They always hung out together, though when we met, Jasmine began hanging out with me too. They were each other's only friend."

"Do you know what made them drift apart?"

"I always thought it was our relationship, but Jasmine always denied it and Madison was never hostile towards me."

"What did she say was the reason?"

"She never told me exactly what it was, but I began to see them argue in hushed tones more often a few years after Jasmine and I got close. I had never seen them fight like this before. I never heard what was said, but one day Jasmine came to me in tears. She said that she was afraid that their friendship was over. I told her that maybe they just needed to talk it out. She shook her head and told me that that hadn't worked. I urged her to try harder, maybe show up at her house and force her to face the situation directly but she just cried harder. When she was able to speak again, Jasmine told me that she was forbidden to go to her house."

"Forbidden?" John interjected, entering the conversation for the first time in the house.

"Yes. She said that she hadn't ever gone to Madison's house in all her life. I asked her why and she said that she promised Madison she wouldn't when they were little. Apparently, Mrs. Bender had told Madison that having friends over was forbidden. I told her that this was more important than the promise and that she should go anyway." Nick rubbed his eyes that were beginning to fill with tears.

"It's okay, take your time." John consoled, elbowing Sherlock harshly when he heard the detective huff.

"Jasmine was silent for a little while; I thought she hadn't heard me but she suddenly sprang from my lap and told me that I was brilliant. She dashed out of here and went to the house. I didn't see her for three hours. I was worried, pacing frantically and about ready to go look for her when I heard the door open and the faint sound of her crying. I rushed to the foyer and she threw herself in my arms and sobbed. The only thing that I got out of her was that it didn't work and something about keeping secrets. We never spoke of it again; I tried to bring it up a few times afterwards but she would ignore me or change the subject so I gave up. She wasn't the same since."

"When did that happen?" Sherlock inquired, leaning forward slightly.

"Three months ago."

"Did anything happen after Jasmine returned?"

"Two weeks after that I was walking to the store when I saw Madison. I pulled her aside and said some things I probably shouldn't have about how horrible she was and how hurt Jasmine was. And you know what Madison did? She just calmly looked at me and said that it was my fault. She said that it was my fault that Jasmine had broken their most important promise and saw things she shouldn't have."

"Do you remember her exact words?"

"'You are to blame for ruining our friendship. You drove Jasmine to break the most important promise we made. You drove her to see what I was trying to protect her from; you drove her to see what she was never supposed to know. I hope you're happy.' Then she stalked off and two weeks later I walked into the bedroom and found Jasmine..."

"Decapitated?"

"Yes." Nick choked out, silent tears streaming down his face.

"Do you remember anything odd about the room itself?"

"There wasn't a sign of blood and it reeked of nail polish."

"Who do you think did it?" John interrupted once again.

"Madison, obviously. She practically threatened me and she wasn't at the funeral."

"She didn't show up?" Sherlock titled his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure that she wasn't there, or are you just saying that?"

"I am positive. Jasmine's mom looked for her because she wanted Madison to say a few words, she didn't know about their fight, but-"

"She didn't know that they weren't friends anymore?"

"No; they were rather strange after the night Jasmine went to her house. In public they acted as though nothing ever happened, though I could see it was strained and awkward, but when I asked her about it she just said that she didn't want to talk about it."

Sherlock was silent, but John suddenly got an idea. "How do people act around Madison?"

"What?" Nick asked, both men now attentively staring at him. "Why?"

"Well, you said that Jasmine wasn't allowed in her home."

"Yes, and?"

"If her best friend didn't let her go there, I bet that no one else was allowed to visit either."

"Oh!" Sherlock looked at John, pride gleaming in his eyes. "You think that they kept up their friendship to preserve Madison's image?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it? If one woman shunned the company of the town to that extent, there would be a lot more hostility towards her and people would be suspicious, but if she kept up the act that she had a friend, people wouldn't become extremely suspicious." John elaborated.

"That makes sense..." Nick murmured.

"And then, if they kept up the pretense of being friends, Madison wouldn't be suspected for killing her." John finished.

"John, it wasn't Madison that killed her or the other women." Sherlock interjected, sighing. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"It had to be her!"

"If it was Madison, then why did she murder the other women that looked like Jasmine? Why would she go through so much trouble when-" Sherlock gasped and turned toward Nick. "Was she wearing blue nail polish that day?"

"The day I told her to go to Madison's house? Yes."

"Interesting." Sherlock murmured, falling into silence.

"Thank you for answering our questions." John said.

"No problem, just catch this murderer and make them pay."

"How long did you know Jasmine?" John said, rising from his seat.

"Six years, but we only started dating a year ago. She was murdered on our anniversary." Nick said, following John and smiling sadly.

The three of them walked to the door.

"Thank you again for-"

"You know what I regret the most?" Nick said, holding the door open.

"What?"

"I never told her how I felt. I loved her from the moment I met her, and I never got to tell her. I was going to tell her that night..." Nick closed the door, leaving the two men frozen.

Sherlock moved first, all but running from the house. John stood and stared at the door.

_I never told her how I felt. _

Nick hadn't had the guts to tell Jasmine how he felt, and he found her dead before he could say anything.

What if that happened with Sherlock?

Their life wasn't exactly one of safety; it wasn't a stretch to imagine one of them (or both) dying on a case.

"Hungry?"

John jumped, his thoughts interrupted by Sherlock's almost-whispered question. The detective was inches away when only minutes ago he was across the street.

"Sure." His voice wavered, his racing pulse the only thing he could feel or hear.

Sherlock smirked and shifted his stance, clearly waiting for John to begin walking. If it was possible, his heart beat faster as he began walking towards the Italian restaurant they visited with George. Sherlock walked beside him, their shoulders brushing and the detective's hands by his sides though John's were in his pockets.

John needed to clear his head and think rationally. All of his heart screamed for his lips to proclaim his emotions, but it was his head that held him back.

_Such a declaration will ruin your friendship._

_Look at the signs! Maybe Sherlock feels the same! Maybe this isn't an experiment!_

_Maybe this is just emotion distorting his actions. _

_You heard Nick; you know his biggest regret. Do you want to deal with the same? _

_I know that I don't want to ruin what we have now. _

_Would you rather have Sherlock alive but avoiding you because you told him the truth, or Sherlock dead and ignorant of your feelings and you ignorant of what could've happened? _

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" Sherlock asked, ripping John's attention away from his internal debate.

"What did you say?" John slid into the booth, ignoring the detective's puzzled stare.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock looked down, somewhat sheepishly.

Hang on, Sherlock was _sheepish_?

What did John miss?

"It matters. Explain." John demanded.

Sherlock mumubled something and, despite his efforts, John couldn't understand it.

"What was that?"

"I was just further explaining why Madison cannot be the murderer," Sherlock snapped. He refused to meet John's questioning gaze, but, if he had, the detective would've seen a smirk that grew wider by the second until it stretched all the way across the doctor's face.

"You're lying."

"Am not."

"You forget that I know you better than anyone; I know when you are lying."

"You know nothing," Sherlock hissed. "You're just as blind as everybody else."

An awkward silence followed. John was, at first, slightly offended by the detective's harsh and impulsive insult, but, as the words repeated themselves in his mind, he noticed that the tone was not one of malice but of defense.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the snap of the candle flame.

It flickered and danced, teasing John of the possibilities. Whether it was Angelo's intention to forever ruin candles for John or not, the doctor thought about their first dinner together every time he saw one.

_When will you tell him?_

_I am NOT going to say anything!_

_How can you not tell him? You almost lost him yesterday; imagine what it would've been like if you had found his body in the same state as George's! _

The frantic desperation that had completely controlled the doctor during the search encompassed him once again, so vivid and horrifying that John shuddered. He couldn't imagine NOT finding Sherlock alive. He wasn't under any misconceptions about their occupation, yet the thought of finding the detective's corpse amidst alleyway chases and lab visits was impossible. John could sooner believe that unicorns were real.

In that moment, John knew that his heart had overpowered his mind.

But how was he supposed to tell Sherlock the truth?

The food had no taste as John pulled himself out of his thoughts long enough to put up the façade of normalcy.

It wouldn't be good for John to loose what little control over his words that he possessed in the middle of a bustling restaurant.

Sherlock was also staring at the candle, still not eating though there was a half-drunk cup of coffee in front of him.

The doctor quickly finished his meal and paid for both of them before Sherlock could.

They loitered outside the building, Sherlock leaning on the wall and fingering the box of nicotine patches that he hadn't worn the whole case.

How was John supposed to tell the detective his true feelings?

He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, but nothing would come out.

"What? Obviously you are trying to say something important; out with it!" Sherlock stared at John, his orbs boring into the doctor's until he was convinced that the detective could see his soul.

Wouldn't it be so much simpler if that were true?

Because, try as John might, he couldn't find the right words to describe what he felt. It definitely wasn't a crush, that was far too simple and immature. What John felt for the detective went far deeper than infatuation; sure Sherlock was extremely attractive, but what drew John to him was his personality.

Ironic, that. It was strange for John to think about; that the detective's unique nature was what made John fall in love with him.

No, that wasn't right either. "Love" was too commonplace; anyone could love anything.

John tore at his hair in frustration. The one moment he had the courage to tell the detecrive his feellngs and words escape him.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock walked up to John. "What are you-"

Whether it was his irritation or the detective's close proximity, John felt himself lean forward. Sherlock tilted his head in confusion before his eyes widened.

John lurched forward, his lips pressing against the detective's as his hands cupped the angular face.

Sherlock remained frozen.

John pulled away, embarrassed and horrified.

"God I'm sorry... I should've known..." John turned and walked away, his face red and heart broken. He should've known that it wasn't like that between them.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his reverie.

"John! Wait!"

"It's fine Sherlock; I'm fine."

"No John, listen to me! I-" Sherlock reached forward and grabbed John's arm, pulling the doctor to him.

"Sherlock STOP. Don't... Just... Don't." John wrenched his arm from Sherlock's grasp. "Just leave me alone. Please."

The doctor walked away from the detective, tears stinging his eyes that his pride refused to let flow.

What had he done?


	14. Chapter 14

**And now we get to look inside the mind of our favorite psychopath (because let's face it, we can't call him a sociopath anymore ;) (then again, I never thought he was one)).**

**Sherlock's POV! This begins directly after they left Nick's house as I felt that it would be best to show how the words impacted Sherlock.**

* * *

"I never told her how I felt. I loved her from the moment I met her, and I never got to tell her. I was going to tell her that night..."

The words froze John, but they had the opposite effect on Sherlock. He couldn't stop moving away from the house.

His mind wasn't normally something driven by a single thought, but, at that moment, the only thing Sherlock could hear echoing throughout the vast expanse of his mind was "_run!"_

Because that's what he always did. He always ran from feelings, disguising his terror at their lack of logic and understanding as something deleted. Sometimes it worked; sometimes he was able to trick himself that he wasn't fleeing, that was something Sherlock's pride would never let him admit to fully, but that he was merely incapable of experiencing, much less comprehending, emotion.

On the rare occasion that the truth was both prevalent and heeded, Sherlock could admit (to himself only) that he possessed emotion in stronger, much more dangerous, amounts than the average human.

Until John came into his life; that man had more feeling in one fingernail than Sherlock did in his whole body.

Sherlock turned to look at the still-frozen man; obviously the parting remark Nick so graciously bestowed upon them affected the doctor as much, if not more so, than the detective.

It was a moment of the worst sorts that the truth came bubbling up within Sherlock's mind, of both his emotional levels in general and towards the doctor, and he shook his head.

This was no time to be thinking of such things.

His eyes focused once more on John (when had his thoughts and feelings been so potent that his sight failed him?) and the detective was slightly amused to find that the doctor still stood in the same spot.

He moved closer to John, so much so that their faces were centimeters apart and Sherlock's gaze flickered to the doctor's lips.

His treacherous mind began wandering to thoughts of actions that made his face hot and his palms sweaty.

"Hungry?" His voice, more disloyal than his mind, betrayed him; it was dripping with longing and Sherlock's normal apathy was nowhere to be found.

The doctor blinked; his pupils blown wide, forcing Sherlock to (unsuccessfully) smother a somewhat triumphant smirk. "Sure." John's voice wavered, but Sherlock ignored the implications of such a sound.

Sherlock backed away, slightly, and resisted the urge to brush against the pensive doctor as they walked to the restaurant. His mind began to wander to what John could possibly be so worked up about when Sherlock's thoughts turned to Nick's words.

_I never told her how I felt. I loved her from the moment I met her, and I never got to tell her._

Why were those words so monumental to the doctor?

It was something related to sentiment, it was quite obvious as John's pupils were still dialated and his face flushed (was such a reaction really because of Sherlock?); perhaps John felt that it related to their situation.

Preposterious.

To say one fell in love with another upon first glance always irritated Sherlock. Infatuation, lust, or perhaps a crush, could surely develop in such a situation, but not love. Love was something that was so much deeper than glances and flirtatious banter.

Love was being willing to kill, or die, for a person. Love was putting up with them, faults and strengths alike, no matter how difficult it was.

Sherlock wasn't ignorant of his multiple idiosyncrasies, quite frankly he didn't care what other people thought of his differences, and he had always thought that there was no one capable of loving him of their own volition.

There was a time when this knowledge stung, but he had shoved the hurt aside. Dwelling on such a pointless topic would only slow him down.

Then he met John.

It was perhaps the only time Sherlock had ever really felt something for someone upon first , even when he met the other two most important people in his life.

Mrs. Hudson had always made him feel loved; she became his mother-like figure since his own parent would never stoop to fulfil that role, but he hadn't been extremely attached to her when they first met. She had been sniveling and, while it was certainly a justifiable action given her circumstances, it annoyed him immensely.

When he met Lestrade, around the same time he met Mrs. Hudson, the man had definitely impressed Sherlock somewhat with his slightly above average intelligence (which was quite astounding given the D.I.'s team consisted mainly of brainless fools), but it was his understandable yet aggravating doubt in the detective's abilities that made Lestrade lose what little impressiveness that the intelligence had earned him.

And those were the only people Sherlock had allowed himself to be slightly sentimental towards.

Until he met John.

He hadn't been overly emotional, nor had he completely doubted the detective, although Sherlock had deduced several things about him and somewhat casually put the idea of moving in together out in the open (he refused to stoop to _ask _if the stranger would move in with him). Sherlock then left the room, after winking at John, and waited until he got back to 221 B to express his delight at finding someone that appeared to be capable of tolerating him with exuberance that his reaction to Lestrade asking him to inspect the fourth victim of the cabbie mirrored.

Looking back on that moment, Sherlock reluctantly admitted that maybe, just maybe, his heart had been racing faster than he had ever experienced and his pupils were dilated, something he noticed when he had glanced at his reflection in a glass door as he left the building.

Their situation might have had miniscule similarity, yes, but that did not mean that he needed to tell John his value to the detective.

It was, after all, obvious to everyone they met, so why wouldn't it be known to John?

There was a time when John constantly denied their accusations about their relationship and his sexuality, but the doctor had stopped doing that and, while they had always been close, they had been acting less like friends or colleagues and more like lovers during the current case.

Then again, John did have a nasty habit of being completely unaware of the obvious.

Sherlock felt a warm smile spread over his lips as he thought fondly of his doctor's strangely amusing cluelessness.

"John," he murmured, unable to look at the man beside him. "My affections, I am sure, are not entirely unknown to you. Does it really need saying how I feel?" Sherlock forced himself to glance at the man beside him, loathing how his voice lacked the usual apathetic iciness. It was yet another defense mechanism that the doctor had stripped from him.

It was then that he noticed John's faraway look and still pensive expression, and Sherlock's face fell.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" Sherlock sighed and slumped into the booth.

"What did you say?"

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock was suddenly unable to look at John; his loathing of displaying weakness finally overpowering his emotions for John. It was something that should've relieved the detective, but all it did was upset his stomach and send his thoughts into chaotic anger at the suddenly suffocating presence of the doctor in his mind.

"It matters. Explain." John demanded.

"Why did I ever take this case?" Sherlock muttered.

"What was that?"

"I was just further explaining why Madison cannot be the murderer," Sherlock snapped, his eyes focusing on anything but the doctor, though he was not unable to miss the strange smirk that stretched from ear to ear on John's face.

"You're lying."

"Am not."

"You forget that I know you better than anyone; I know when you are lying."

"You know nothing," Sherlock hissed. "You're just as blind as everybody else."

John's food arrived, and he began eating mechanically, his thoughts obviously straying to more interesting topics.

It was rather dull to watch the doctor eat, yet Sherlock put up with it, though at times, including this one, he wanted nothing more than to flee. His stomach was still churning for whatever reason and the smell (stench) of food made the detective gag.

Sherlock stared at John for a few moments before steering his thoughts back to the murders at hand.

He was focusing on the conversation with Nick when their waitress brought Sherlock his coffee. He took a sip, forcing himself to rely solely on caffeine rather than that and nicotine, when he noticed the candle flickering in front of them.

A small smile graced the detective's face as he thought of Angelo.

No. Sherlock shouldn't think of that _now. _

_"They were best friends since childhood; they were practically inseparable."_

_"Apparently, Mrs. Bender had told Madison that having friends over was forbidden."_

_"The only thing that I got out of her was that it didn't work and something about keeping secrets."_

It wasn't entirely odd for a mother to forbid her child to invite their best friend over; there were loads of reasons for such an order (mother didn't like the child, mother didn't feel like hosting, mother didn't want others to see their house, etc.).

But, if they were as close as he made it seem, it didn't make sense that Madison wouldn't let Jasmine come over when they were adults.

Unless there was something she was hiding. If the only thing Jasmine told Nick, probably the second closest person to her, was that Madison kept a secret from her, it was because the hidden thing/information was either too horrible to utter, too personal to disclose, or she was threatened to keep quiet.

The secret was tied to her murder, obviously, but what of the others? What was so horrible that Jasmine, and women that looked like her, earned a decapitation and a blood draining?

_"'You drove Jasmine to break the most important promise we made.'"_

_"'You drove her to see what I was trying to protect her from; you drove her to see what she was never supposed to know.'"_

The most important promise clearly had something to do with entering the house; did that tie in to why the mother forbade visitors?

What was Madison hiding?

It was something she desired to protect Jasmine from, something sinister and secret, which was the reason she was murdered. There was something to see, meaning that it was a tangible thing hidden, or an action committed, though it was more likely that what was observed was an object. From what Sherlock had gathered about Jasmine, she would've been trickier to silence (without bodily harm) if she had witnessed a compromising action. She was the sort of woman that put justice above all else, and they had kept her silent for a few weeks.

So what or who was Madison hiding?

The clink of John's utensils disrupted Sherlock's thought process, and he scowled until he noticed that the doctor was finished with the meal. The detective quickly paid for the food, and they left the building.

The detective wanted more than anything to go inspect Madison's home, but he leaned against the wall and waited for John as the man stood with a strange look on his face. John continued to stand there, his eyes flickering to Sherlock every so often, and the detective's irritation grew.

Was the doctor _still _preoccupied with Nick's words?

Sherlock was frustrated; the one time John _hadn't _listened to him and he'd said something important. He huffed; nothing the doctor could say or do would get him to repeat the words.

As if he could read his thoughts, John turned his full attention to Sherlock, and he rubbed his box of nicotine patches warily.

John opened and closed his mouth, much like a fish, and the detective's patience vanished.

"What? Obviously you are trying to say something important; out with it!" Sherlock snapped, staring at doctor.

His thoughts about their relationship were so loud that they derailed any train of thought that wasn't related directly to John.

Was he having second thoughts about their relationship? Was the doctor realizing that it was too much of a hassle to be flat mates and friends with Sherlock Holmes?

Had he known about Sherlock's feelings and suddenly desired to flee? Was it truly impossible to love the detective?

"What? What is it?" Sherlock walked up to John. "What are you-"

Suddenly John's warm, slightly-chapped lips were pressed against Sherlock's.

His mind went from mass chaos to complete and total silence, and he couldn't move, completely paralyzed with shock.

He hadn't expected such a forward action from John.

Sherlock didn't realize his mistake until the doctor yanked himself away.

"God I'm sorry... I should've known..." John turned around and all but sprinted down the sidewalk. Sherlock muttered a curse and rushed to the doctor.

"John! Wait!"

"It's fine Sherlock; I'm fine."

"No John, listen to me! I-" Sherlock reached forward and grabbed John's arm, pulling the doctor to him.

"Sherlock STOP. Don't... Just... Don't." John wrenched his arm from Sherlock's grasp. "Just leave me alone. Please."

The detective's heart wrenched at the obvious beginnings of tears, but he obeyed the doctor, knowing full well that any action at the moment would be misinterpreted.

Instead, Sherlock turned and walked in the opposite direction, hoping that a stroll would clear his head.

* * *

Whoever said that walking away from a situation would assist in processing it was more idiotic than Anderson.

His head still buzzed with shock, elation, regret, and an ever-increasing nervousness, and Sherlock had been walking for a half an hour.

He was still in disbelief that the kiss had even occurred. It was an obvious sign of love; it was an action that could not be passed off as friendship or brotherhood. Sherlock's mother had always told him that he was unlovable and a waste of space, and he had been fully prepared for John to walk away from Sherlock or tell the detective that he was staying until the case was over. Yet this extraordinary man showed him the affection that Sherlock believed he would never receive.

Sherlock's thoughts went back to the morgue and their shared bed, and he couldn't restrain himself from grinning triumphantly.

He was elated that John felt the same as himself; it was something that he wanted to broadcast to the world. Not that his mother had been wrong (although that was a bonus); no, Sherlock wanted everyone to know that John was his and he John's.

He did, however, regret how the kiss transpired. He wanted to kick himself for screwing everything up.

Which brought Sherlock to drown in waves of apprehension; how in the world was he going to set things right?

How in the world could he prove to John that his feelings for the doctor were genuine?

* * *

It was another hour before Sherlock found himself wandering into the hotel, still completely focused on John.

He brushed past the blonde receptionist and was making his way to the lifts when Sherlock heard the receptionist tell Madison that there was an important phone call for her. Madison thanked the woman as she left so that the manager could pick up the phone, and the detective inched closer.

Madison's hands shook slightly as she called the person back. Sherlock thought the tremor was a result of shock or fear, but, when she began talking, she sounded enraged.

"Is it true?" She hissed. "No; for once, _you _are going to listen to _me. _Did you kill George?"

What was it that Sherlock overheard John telling George?

_"Your pupils __did _dilate when we discussed Madison Bender earlier."

"You bastard." Madison's voice shook with grief. "You sick bastard!" She hung up the phone and marched to her office, no doubt getting ready to go to her home.

Sherlock turned around, got on a lift, and all but ran to their room.

John sat on the bed, head in his hands, and he didn't move from his position.

"Sherlock-"

"John, there is no time for that. We need to go to Madison's home _right now._"

"I think I found it earlier when I went walking after..." John's voice trailed off as he stood and reached for his gun.

"Good."

John brushed past Sherlock, still not looking directly at him, and the detective gently grabbed his arm.

"We _will _talk about this later," Sherlock said, gently cupping John's chin and staring the doctor in the eyes. "But right now we need to focus on the case at hand."

"I understand." John replied, somewhat icily as he lightly removed Sherlock's hand from his face.

Sherlock nodded once and followed the doctor out of the room.


	15. Chapter 15

******And back to Johnny boy :)**

* * *

John was beyond relieved to get out of the stuffy room and away from the detective, but his respite was rudely interrupted by none other than Madison Bender.

She stood near the lifts and, upon seeing the two men, all but ran to them.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Her face and voiced resembled that of a mouse trapped by a cat. It was the first time John had seen her look completely unprofessional.

"What is it?" To a stranger, Sherlock would've sounded as though her query was of the utmost importance, however obvious it may be, but John knew that the urgency in his tone was simply impatience. She was holding them up from the case, and he didn't appreciate it.

Neither did John, of course, but that was only because he wanted to push his hasty actions towards the detective as far back in his mind as possible. He needed something to do, and this woman, of all people, was holding them back.

"You are here to investigate the gruesome murders of the women, yes?"

"Obviously; why else would I be here? Now if you don't mind, my friend and I have somewhere to be." Sherlock sauntered past her and reached for the button.

Madison grabbed his wrist. "You mean my home?"

Sherlock turned and looked at her, not the least bit impressed. "It seems you have something to hide, something that I intend to uncover."

"Well, you can break into my house like ignorant savages, or you can listen to what I have to say on the matter. Did it occur to you that I seek justice just as much as Nick or George?"

Sherlock looked at John as though for permission, and the doctor nodded almost imperceptibly, though his efforts were wasted because Madison had her full attention on the detective, and she wouldn't have noticed the gesture no matter how obvious it was.

"Should we talk about this in the room?" John asked, and Madison looked at him.

"That sounds good." Madison replied, smiling slightly at the doctor.

They walked back, the silence somewhat awkward as John held the door open and Madison brushed by. Sherlock paused in the hall. He looked as though he was about to say something, but after a few moments, he entered the room.

John sighed and followed the detective.

Madison sat on the bed, fidgeting as John sat on the couch and Sherlock perched atop the armrest, their arms touching slightly.

"Now, what was it that you wanted to tell us?" Sherlock coolly inquired.

"My side of the story." Madison replied, sitting up straighter. "You heard from George and Nick about the murders; now it is my turn to talk.

* * *

"I had a somewhat normal childhood, considering the circumstances. I had only one true friend, Jasmine Smith," at this she paused and took a deep, shaky breath, "but I didn't mind. I didn't really see the benefits of having multiple friends as it just meant that there were more people I had to lie to. It wasn't that I couldn't be myself around others, but, as you have probably already figured out, I wasn't allowed to have anyone near or in my house. It was just my mother and I, and, of course, our secret.

"Two years after I was born, my mom got pregnant again. My father didn't like me all that much (I was an unwelcome accident in his eyes), and the knowledge that there was going to be a second child repulsed him. He left us a few weeks after we found out the news.

"I do not remember much of the first couple of years with my brother, Mark, but, even in my earliest memories, I knew there was something not quite right about him. It was something my mother didn't like to acknowledge very much, but it wasn't a secret that she noticed his peculiar behavior. Most little boys enjoy catching frogs, lizards, insects, isn't that right? But do most boys rip their heads off, hang them upside down above bowls, and collect their blood?

"You are no doubt making connections about the murders. He always liked a good decapitation.

"But back to the animal carcasses. They were something he showed me proudly, as though he had won the lottery. It was grotesque and repulsive, but when he took two bowls, handed one to me, and then drank the blood as though it was milk, I screamed for the first time. Mom rushed into the room and witnessed the appalling sight, and she couldn't ignore Mark's odd behavior any more.

"We took him to a specialist in London, and he was diagnosed with Renfield's syndrome, or clinical vampirism.

"It was the last time we let him out of the house.

"As my friendship grew with Jasmine, Mark grew jealous. He didn't like that I interacted with people other than him, and he figured that the best way to keep me in the house was through abusing me both physically and verbally. Of course, this only made me leave the house more often and for a longer time, which caused the abuse to escalate. Eventually, I compromised with him. I told him that I would let him drink my blood if I was allowed to be in public more often during the day.

"He accepted the deal, as he was never allowed to drink human blood before and, though our mom was still forbidding him to do so, Mark knew that I wouldn't tell her because I loved being away from the house too much. She did eventually find out about our deal, and that night you could hear her and Mark arguing from any room in the house. I'm still surprised that the neighbors didn't hear them. The next morning, she was dead. It looked as though she died in her sleep, but I knew that my brother had killed her. I didn't know what to do and I was afraid that the same fate would befall me, so I didn't tell anyone the truth.

"Everything was fine for years afterwards (well, as fine as they could be), but then Jasmine and I began arguing. It wasn't really much of anything; she just wanted me to tell her the truth about why I would never let her come over, but our constant fighting drove us apart.

"One night, she came over to my house. Jasmine had come over to apologize about our growing apart, but, when she looked into my kitchen window, she saw Mark cut my upper arm and drink my blood. She screamed and started banging on the glass, demanding that Mark release me. Mark ran out of the house, grabbed her, and brought her into the living room and told me to make her leave. I told her all that I told you, the only difference being that I was apologizing profusely the whole time, but I got her to swear that she wouldn't tell anyone what she saw or heard.

"The promise of her silence wasn't enough for Mark, so he killed her. And when that wasn't enough for him, he began murdering women who looked like her out of paranoia. He always left their corpses by the inn so that I would remember the consequences of telling the truth about my life.

"After the fifth murder, I grew desperate. George, a brother of one of Mark's victims that I had formed a friendship with," at this her cheeks flamed, "had read your blog, John, and he told me that if anyone could figure out who was killing all of these people, it was you, Sherlock. I came to London on the pretense of a business trip in order to beg for your assistance, but my brother followed me and murdered two women in London, partially because he desired the blood and partially to warn me of the consequences of asking for your assistance. I returned home depressed, positive that I would never be free of Mark, but then George offered to find you, and I begged him to do so.

"He brought you here and, when Mark found out about your presence in the town, he saw George with you two. He told me that he listened into your conversation and that George was telling you that I was the murderer, so Mark killed him. After finding out that he murdered George, I decided that I have had enough of Mark terrorizing me. I do not care if he is my brother; he murdered my best friend and George. He deserves to rot in hell.

"So, Mr. Holmes, will you help me or not?"

* * *

Madison agreed to wait for the men in the lobby while they made plans for dealing with Mark.

Once they were finished, John realized that they were still sitting in the same position they were when they listened to Madison's story, and he all but jumped off of the couch. He reached for his gun that he had accidently forgotten when they first decided to visit Madison's house, and he was a little thankful that she had interrupted them.

It was the only positive thing about listening to her rambling.

"Is something troubling you John?" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts as he stood from the armrest and walked over to the doctor.

"Did her story seem off to you? Not quite right?"

"It is interesting that she knew we interviewed Nick about the situation."

"We never told anyone about it; we only spoke to him a few hours ago. And what about George? It doesn't explain why he was adamantly telling us that she's the murderer."

"She didn't have to explain that; he probably told us that so we would investigate her more."

"We would've looked into her anyway!"

"Do you really think I would've bothered to look into Madison if all I heard about her was George blathering about how he thought something wasn't right about her situation?"

"You're listening to me say that." John reminded Sherlock.

"Yes, but it's different with you." Sherlock muttered, turning away from the doctor. "Are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

* * *

Madison thanked them no less than ten times as they walked from the inn to her front door. John was, ironically, extremely irritated with the constant expressions of gratitude, but, when Sherlock glanced at the doctor with mirth shining from his eyes, his anger diminished.

The detective gently stopped John. Madison noticed their sudden halt and turned to them with a puzzled expression.

"We just need to go over the plan one more time. Just go ahead, we will catch up."

Madison nodded and continued walking.

"John, relax. Everything will be fine. We will have the case finished by tomorrow, and then we will return to Baker Street and you will write about this case on that atrocious blog of yours."

John chuckled at this, and Sherlock's grin widened before his face grew serious once more.

"And we _will _have that talk."

"Can't you just delete that memory from your mind palace? I won't ever do-"

"John, did it ever occur to you that I don't want to forget it?"

The doctor was completely flabbergasted; he didn't know what to think of that statement.

"Now come along; we have a case to finish."

John shook his head, dispelling thoughts of Sherlock's words. He needed to focus on the case at hand. The whole thing wasn't quite right, and the doctor would need his full attention on the case so that he could protect the detective from whatever Madison was hiding.

* * *

She wasn't too far ahead of the men, but they didn't make an effort to catch up to her. They just followed Madison on their own until they arrived, all too soon, at her front porch. She let them into her home and watched as they went about examining the interior.

There wasn't anything unusual about the house; it looked completely different from the Addam's family-like design John had half expected to discover.

The only major thing that was strange was the absurdly strong smell of cinnamon air freshener. They examined the second and first floors, but they didn't find anything incriminating.

It didn't look as though Madison had shared the home with a brother in the slightest. When John verbalized this thought, Sherlock reminded him that they hadn't checked the basement yet.

"Basement? This house has a basement?"

"Yes; obviously. Where else would Madison disappear to?"

John sighed; he wasn't shocked in the slightest that they hadn't seen a sign of her since they entered her abode.

They crept through the first floor until Sherlock saw the entrance to the basement and motioned for John to walk behind him. The doctor scoffed and moved in front of the detective.

As they descended into the basement, the wooden stairs creaked under their feet, loud squeaks of protests that made John want to groan in frustration. Unlike the steps though, he held his tongue.

Despite the darkness, John could tell that the room was massive. A familiar metallic stench made his stomach clench, and his hands were still as they felt and found the light switch.

As the lights slowly flickered on, John saw rows of bookcases filled with bloodbags rather than books, and he gagged.

From somewhere in the room, the doctor heard Madison scream, and the room was plunged into darkness once more.

Something was stabbed into John's neck, and he vaguely registered it to be a needle.

_Shit. _

The last thing John heard before he faded into unconsciousness was a rich, familiar baritone voice calling out his name.


	16. Chapter 16

**This particular chapter was particularly tricky as I wanted to write it just right, but I think that I finally got the gist of it. **

**Thank you for all of the reviews, faves, follows and reads! **

**Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

John felt a vague tugging sensation in his legs, and he was faintly aware of his body being dragged across the floor.

What was he supposed to be doing again?

He couldn't remember much of anything; his mind was a grey haze that throbbed and stung. He tried to ask what was going on, but his mouth was unresponsive. He tried to move his arms, but they didn't budge. The only reaction John received from his body was a strange sensation of numbness that normally was accompanied by pins and needles.

What the hell happened?

John's body finally stilled as someone roughly dropped his legs.

A low groan echoed throughout the room, followed by the sound of chains rattling. The stench of blood assaulted John's nose, resulting in wave of nausea crashing into his stomach and roaring though the rest of his body until it reached his brain.

Memories stirred sleepily in John's mind; flashes of alleyway chases, corpses, and chaotic flat mates faded into existence. John vaguely wondered whether or not they were products of an overactive imagination.

"How cliché." Someone muttered. Their familiar voice filled the room, echoing slightly.

And, with that snarky statement, the random snippets in John's head became impossibly clear. His whereabouts weren't as mysterious as they had been, he knew now that he was in Madison's basement, though he still wasn't sure who had drugged him (Mark? Madison?).

Whoever they were, they had obviously knocked out John (and Sherlock?) and chained up the detective. But why had they left John alone otherwise?

Mentally shaking his head, John pushed the somewhat insistant question away. That wasn't what mattered. What mattered was how they were going to escape.

Everything else could wait; Sherlock's safety couldn't.

The dragging resumed, his legs grabbed with the same gruffness as before. The sound of his clothes scraping the cold hard ground was the only thing he could hear as his body twisted and turned around bookshelves he remembered rather than saw.

The sound of chains rattling interrupted the scraping as his body stopped moving with much less abruptness than before.

"John?" The normally cold tone of the detective was completely absent; the simple question was overflowing with emotion as his voice cracked slightly at the end. John would've winced if he could have from the sheer devastation and confusion he heard. "What have you done to him?" The apathy had returned, though the icy tone was steely rather than nonchalant.

"Bit of an accident, I'm afraid." Madison replied. "But that doesn't matter to Mark, your friend here was just collateral damage."

"What did you do?" Sherlock growled.

"Bit of an accidental overdose. He should've woken up a hour or so before you did."

"How long has he been out?"

"Six hours."

"How long was he supposed to be out?"

"About a hour and a half after injection."

Silence fell as Sherlock processed the information. John wanted more than anything to shout that he wasn't dead, that she hadn't looked closely enough, that his heart was racing and very much alive...

A foot reamed into John's side, turning his limp body over like a chef would flip a pancake. John heard a low growl, almost savage, and Madison chuckled. Chains rattled, their clicking growing louder as cold hands grabbed the doctor's body and pulled John into his lap. He felt Sherlock cradle his body as one of the detective's hands grasped the doctor's. John's head leaned against the detective's racing heart.

_Take my pulse! Take my pulse you git! _

Sherlock's fingers brushed John's wrist in a slow circle that would've appeared to be a caress, but John knew that it was the detective searching for a heartbeat. John felt Sherlock's heart stop for a split second before it slowed slightly and his fingertips shook, though they didn't leave his arm.

"Why did you kill all of those people? Why did you kill John?"

"Mark said..." Madison abruptly stopped speaking. It was a robotic sort of silence that followed, and John felt like he was missing something important. He tried to open his eyes, but he only succeeded in making them twitch.

He felt familiar warm lips kiss his eyelids and Sherlock's voice, barely audible, murmur a soft _don't _before the warmth disappeared.

"So you're the killer." Sherlock's voice was predatory, as though it was him in control of the situation rather than Madison.

It was a few minutes before Madison responded. "Jasmine deserved it."

Sherlock snorted. "You're hardly the sort to kill someone because you thought they 'deserved it', and you certainly don't possess the sort of strength, both physical and mental, to decapitate people and store their blood in your basement, so tell me," Sherlock leaned forward, and John was sure that, if he hadn't been holding the doctor, he would've steepled his hands under his chin, "who is Mark and where is he?"

"That's what Jennifer used to ask me. 'Where is Mark?'" She mimicked, her voice high and squeaky. "'Why haven't I ever seen him?' 'Does he even exist?'"

"Why haven't I seen him if he wants me so badly?"

"What makes you so special that you think you deserve to see him?"

"What makes you so special that you can?"

"I was his sister."

"So that wasn't a lie?"

John could now control his face.

"Lies don't have to be large in size to be deceiving."

"No, but you're hardly clever enough to make something up like that on your own, much less convince me of it's sincerity. Even John had noticed something was wrong with your story. You aren't the sort to lie, much less kill seven women, one of which being your supposed best friends, and George."

"Jasmine didn't believe me. She never believed me..." Madison trailed off awkwardly again.

The silence dragged on for what felt like ages, though it was probably only ten minutes.

John could now feel his shoulders.

Sherlock continued stroking John's wrist.

"When did he die?"

"What?"

"When did he die?"

"Mark didn't die."

"Yes he did. Earlier you referred to him in the past tense: 'I was his sister.' Was. You flinched both times when I asked you if Mark was dead. I cannot see your brother, but, by the way your eyes keep flickering to your right, you still see him. His death must've been a traumatic event then, but something you couldn't talk about because, if you could've, Jasmine wouldn't have suspected you to be lying about him."

John's body was ripped away from Sherlock. The detective, not realizing what happened until it was too late, made a grab for the doctor's body after it was away from him.

"He's dead; get over it. I need his body more than you do." Madison replied, tugging John away with far much ease than he thought possible.

It occurred to him that she had slowly dragged the doctor out earlier for dramatic reasons rather than lack of strength. She plopped him on a hard surface (table?) and walked away.

"What do you need his body for?"

"Why don't you take a look around and make a _deduction._"

John remembered the numerous bookcases filled with blood and inwardly shuddered.

"Don't even _think _about touching him."

John could now control his arms.

"I don't think you are in the position to tell me what to do."

"What do you need the blood for? Mark is dead; he doesn't need to drink it anymore."

"I-" Madison's voice wavered. "I just do what he tells me to."

"What does he tell you to do?"

"He wants me to drink the blood."

John wanted to vomit; the words hadn't really shocked him given the situation, but hearing her say them with such nonchalance was absolutely disgusting.

"W-"

"I can understand why he liked it so much," Madison interrupted. "It doesn't taste bad. It tastes tangy and metallic. Like-"

"And it's addicting isn't it? Is that why you killed all of the other women that looked like Jasmine?"

"Mark-"

"I know Mark orders you to do things, but why didn't you fight back? Why didn't you resist him?"

"He was my brother." She repeated.

"You liked it, didn't you?" Sherlock plowed on, ignoring Madison as he allowed his thoughts to be verbalized. "You liked killing and drinking Jasmine, so you decided to do it again. Mark didn't have to persuade you to continue killing people, did he?"

"I did not enjoy killing Jasmine," Madison snapped. "She wouldn't listen to me. She said that I was making up Mark to get her attention because she was ignoring me to be with Nick. Mark didn't like that, and neither did I."

John was equally annoyed and angry. That was no reason to kill multiple people.

He was also a tad bit disappointed that the murders were simply caused by a sick woman.

"And you thought that by making them look exactly like Jasmine, the other victim's blood would taste just as good."

"I was right; it was divine."

"What about George?"

"He was like Jasmine."

"In words or taste?"

"Both. He shouldn't have gone to you for help."

"I wouldn't have paid him much attention if you hadn't killed two women in London."

"Ah, well, you still shouldn't have gotten involved. It doesn't concern you."

"You killed John." Sherlock growled, and John was amazed at how convincing he was. If the doctor hadn't been sure that the detective had felt his pulse, John would've thought that he was still believed to be dead.

Madison laughed. "And wasn't that a sad way to go? John Hamish Watson, ex-army doctor, felled by an overdose."

Sherlock roared, and John heard chains rattling, but Madison's soft eerie laugh could be heard despite the commotion.

The sound of chains faded away, but he could still hear Sherlock panting.

The sound of high heels on cement grew louder and louder as she moved closer and closer to John.

"What could you possibly want with John's body?"

"Haven't I made it obvious that it isn't the body I want?"

"But you said yourself that his blood wouldn't taste as good as Jasmine's," Sherlock pleaded.

"Mark wants his blood, not I."

"He has no use for it! Why would he want something he cannot use?"

"What Mark wants is none of your concern! I am his sister; I am-" Madison broke off, fading for yet another time into a strange sort of quiet.

John could now feel his legs.

He dared to crack an eye open slightly, and he was met with the sight of Madison's back. She was in a sort of ominous frozen stance, and John flexed his muscles slightly (to make sure that he had control of everything), before he launched himself from the table and onto her back, tackling her to the ground.

Madison squirmed and screamed underneath John, but she was nowhere near as strong as he was.

He quickly knocked her out and stood up.

"Bloody psychopath."

"I do believe the term would be schizophrenic, John."

* * *

**So I researched schizophrenia A LOT the past couple of days and I hope that I did it justice. **

**If I didn't, I apologize. I did my best to write it in such a way that was both realistic (with some of the more specific symptoms) and fitting for this particular story. **


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